Torn and Frayed
by ontara
Summary: The Siren's spell has changed things between the brothers, no matter how hard they both pretend it never happened. After everything that's been said and done, will Sam still be able to catch his brother when he falls? Post 4.14. Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

_Thanks so much for stopping by._

_This mulit-chapter story is set in Season 4 – sometime after Sex and Violence, so there'll be spoilers up to that episode and maybe a little beyond. _

_It'll be focused on the brother's again – after writing mostly Dean and John in 'Crows', I needed to have the brothers together again, even though in season 4 they were pretty far apart – relationship-wise._

_This is the first chapter of about 4. _

_I don't own the show or the characters – just saying!_

_Oh, and t__his story is beta-ed by a native speaker, so my usual terrible mistakes will be kept to a minimum. But I can't resist changing stuff even after I get it checked out – so all mistakes you spot still are and always will be my own. Keep in mind that I'm not a native speaker, but I do my best to keep it bearable. _

_So, before I talk myself in circles here –. I really hope you enjoy the first chapter and maybe like it enough to come back for more! I'll update regularly – I aim for once a week, if everything goes as planned!_

**Torn and Frayed**

**Chapter 1**

„So what can I get you boys?"

The busty waitress stands very close to Sam, her hip cocked suggestively, almost brushing his shoulder. The tip of her pen is bouncing in the air as she nibbles on the already nipped off eraser on the back end with her small, white teeth.

Her whole demeanour screams '_look at me' _but Sam doesn't even spare her a second glance, his gaze barely leaving the newspaper in front of him as he slides the laminated menu towards the edge of the table.

"I'll take the eggs and toast – no bacon, no sausage. And another refill, please," He adds, lifting the brightly striped ceramic cup an inch off the table before dropping it back down with a dull thump.

Sam is aware of the annoyed sound of teeth suckling on glossed lips, then an exaggerated sigh before the waitress – Lori - apparently turns away from him to address his brother. Dean's sitting opposite Sam in the narrow booth most of the diners they stop at seem to be equipped with. He's angled sideways a little so their legs don't bump into each other underneath the table, one arm slung over the backrest of his bench, body turned toward the open room of the restaurant so he has a clear view of their surroundings.

'Always with his back against a wall, facing the entrance,' Sam muses. There're some things that will never change. For once, it's a comforting thought.

"What about you, hun'? Today's special is…"

"I'll just take the eggs and toast as well. You…uhm…got anything smaller than the regular plate?" Dean interrupts her husky rambling gently but insistently.

Sam raises his eyes off his paper to give his brother a surprised once over at the question.

"Well, we have a kid's plate…" Lori offers, amusement dripping off her every word, but it seems to be lost on Dean as he simply nods with a tight smile.

"Fine. The kid's plate it is, then."

His smile shifts, manages to appear even more stiff than before as it slips deeper – away from his eyes until it only curls the corners of his mouth in what Sam recognizes as a very forced attempt at best. There's no hint of the usual flirtatious gleam brightening his face, the smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes women swoon on the spot, whether they want to or not. The lack of that smile makes Sam frown, even though he, more than once in the past has been more than just a little annoyed by his brother's out of place flirtatious behaviour.

"We got real good ham – fresh from Dave Miller's farm, just on the other side of town. It's the best in the whole state." The waitress offers hopefully as she taps the tip of her pen against her notebook, cocking her head and pushing her chest out a little more.

Apparently she's intent on not giving up so easily and she shifts her weight from one leg to the other, cocking an eyebrow at Dean before raising the pen to run it over her lower lip in what probably is meant to be a seductive gesture. Now that she seems to have accepted that Sam really isn't interested she concentrates her summoned efforts on his big brother, giving it all she has – which admittedly isn't much, but one can't help but recognize the effort.

Dean looks up at her briefly, offering her that smile again – the _dishonest_ one. But he puts more effort into this time, if only to finally get rid of her. Because one thing's for sure, Dean is definitely not interested.

Sam can't help but watch the exchange a little more closely, amused and confused by what he sees.

Dean leans back a little, pats his abs for emphasis as he widens his smile some more, flashing Lori his pearly whites.

"Nah, thanks. Gotta watch the figure…" And finally he even manages to make the skin around his eyes crinkle ever so slightly, which always, _always_ gets them. Every. Single. Time.

Now is no exception.

"Well, I can't see anything wrong there," she coos, her eyes openly roaming now.

This time Sam does roll his eyes and he can't help the short, sarcastic snort to escape as he shakes his head.

Two pairs of eyes turn to him, the waitress's a little pissed while Dean's remain…unreadable. But before Sam can delve deeper into what he thinks he sees there, what he wants to see there, Dean averts his gaze again, concentrates on the waitress once more.

"No ham for me today, hun. But thanks,"

She zeroes back in on Dean instantly, her eyes softening along with her stance.

"Well then, you don't know what you're missing out on," She says – _purrs_, actually - as she grabs the menus from them and turns around on her heels to leave them be for the moment. Her hips are swaying a little excessively as she probably shows Dean exactly what he's missing out on, Sam guesses.

"Be right back with the coffee, boys," She says over her shoulder just before she disappears behind the counter. Then she's finally gone.

Sam once again snorts in exasperation, shakes his head and quirks his lips in what he assumes has to be his famous 'bitch-face', as Dean likes to call it.

"What?" Dean quips as soon as the woman is out of earshot.

The smile has vanished from his face so thoroughly, Sam wonders if it's ever even been there to begin with. His face is…blank. Empty. His usual high spirit after flirting with a woman just isn't there, his face emotionless and impassive.

But Sam knows that look. Has seen it quite a couple times lately, actually.

It's as if Dean doesn't even care anymore – about all the things he used to care about, like flirting and philandering and teasing his little brother about not doing the same. And those are just the most obvious parts of _Dean_ missing, lately.

Sam tries for his least challenging look, his least challenging tone, but he's not quite succeeding. And, honestly, he doesn't really care to tread too lightly, or if he's hurting Dean's feelings here. Because, seriously, Sam's not the only one to blame about their…tense relationship lately.

Most definitely not.

"Nothing. Just…no bacon, no ham? What's the matter? And don't tell me you're worried about your cholesterol, because I won't buy it, Dean. And don't give me the crap about watching your figure either 'cause that never seemed to stop you before."

Dean expression stays blank, not even the tiniest flinch ruffling his stoic features.

"Well, _before_ I didn't have to worry about lagging behind my little brother, slowing him down and forcing him to wait for me to catch up."

It's said in such a normal, such a noncommittal tone of voice, Sam almost stumbles over the comment, almost returns to reading the paper like he's had every intention of doing before. Because he really hasn't been counting on any sort of _honest _retort to his question.

But he catches on at the last second, feels his whole body tense up, his grip tightening and crumbling the newspaper in his fingers. This…Dean knows exactly how to get him, with this indifferent tone of voice, the vacant eyes and silent-suffering attitude. And still he manages to make it feel like he's punched Sam straight in the guts, somehow.

Sam stays right where he is but his body is sprung and ready, almost brimming with indignation.

"What the hell, Dean?"

Dean's still right where he was before, leaning back with one arm slung over the backrest of the bench, the other hand resting in a loose fist on his paper placemat. He keeps looking at Sam from underneath lowered lashes, wordlessly, his jaw set in a way that suggest he isn't going to elaborate.

"You got something to say, say it, Dean. Stop beating around the fucking bush. Because we _talked_ about this. More than once. I thought we agreed…"

Dean holds his gaze for a moment longer, but the challenge in his eyes is somewhat missing, replaced by an emotion Sam can't quite place. Despair…or resignation? But before he can investigate further, before he can even attempt to read his brother, to decipher his expression, Dean slumps a little in his seat and turns his head to look out the window to where the Impala is parked in a spot just in front of the window.

"It was the Siren talking, Dean. And it's not like you didn't have a thing or two to say to me, either," Sam presses out, his voice quivering dangerously.

Dean's eyes flick over to Sam again, gaze almost hesitant, as if he wants to actually say something of substance. But then, just as Sam's sure his brother will spill his guts, Dean averts his eyes again, looking out the window once more.

"Yeah, I know. Sorry. Just forget I said anything."

Sam's body is thrumming, heartbeat reverberating loudly inside his chest and head and whole body, every fiber of him screaming to press Dean about this, to make him stand up to what he's just said. Too many times in the past weeks since the damn siren has turned them against each other has his brother started to say something, to throw some sharp remark at him only to back away again when being confronted about it.

It isn't Dean's usual MO, this backing down, and Dean sure as hell isn't as innocent in all this as he apparently believes he is. It's not as if he'd kept his own mouth shut and not said some things that were so totally out of line and hurt Sam to the very core.

"Do we really need to go there _again_? Because if you insist, I got some things to rub into your face as well, you know?" Sam presses out between clenched teeth, flinty gaze fixed on his brother's profile, since Dean keeps his eyes averted, the angle of his head and the poor light of the plastic overhead lamp keeping his eyes in shadow.

"Nah, no need. Said I'm sorry…"

The situation is so loaded, _Sam _is so loaded - he knows it could easily slip out of control – out of _his_ control any moment. He's always been the more impulsive one, the one who has the hardest time holding back when feeling treated unjust. Just look at his relationship with their dad - always fighting and pretending to hate each other. It's nothing Sam is particularly proud of, but he just won't back down, time and time again when he so clearly is not the one to be put at fault.

Sam stares at his brother's profile as if he's able to will him to turn and look at him Dean's jaw jumps, that cord of muscle underneath a three-days-growth of beard ticking once, twice, his adam's apple bobbing.

Neither of them gives in for what seems like minutes.

But both of them are ripped out of their little game of wills when suddenly the waitress appears at their table again, steaming pot of coffee in her hands, noisily refilling both their cups with the tar-like, bitter smelling brew. Sam actually jumps, sees Dean flinch as they turn toward the intrusion.

Their eyes meet in passing only, but Sam swears he can see his brother's defences slip for that blink of an eye before they lose each other again to stare up at the waitress now standing at their table.

"Here ya go boys. Your eggs and toast will be up in a couple minutes," she declares a little too loudly, and Sam sees Dean wince at the sound of her voice, sees him close his eyes momentarily, brows drawing together, his hand lifting from the tabletop as if going to reach for his head.

As if in pain.

But it's gone again as fast as it appeared, and as Dean turns his head around to meet the annoying as hell woman his face is once again well schooled – wall solidly back in place. He graces Lori with one of his best patented smiles and only his hand, fingers still curled into a fist on top of the table, betrays his outwardly relaxed countenance.

"Thank you sugar," he drawls, and Sam can not repress the very serious, very frustrated shake of his head.

Lori notices, of course, throwing Sam another one of her disapproving looks before rolling her hip off their table to stroll off.

"So, you found something?" Dean asks nonchalantly, chin pointing toward the newspaper Sam only now realizes he's still holding tightly in his grasp.

Sam's still shaking his head, unable to believe how Dean can slip so easily from accusation to tension-loaded silence to acting as if nothing happened.

But alright - topic closed then. Another crisis averted for the time being. It suits Sam just fine. He's long past talking, long past discussing things over and over again. And not even Dean's silent suffering can make Sam break his new found determination on this one. There might have been times when he'd have folded, but not anymore. He's done being the little brother, the one always backing down, being patronized by his father and big brother.

Sam takes a moment to compose himself, to calm his nerves and loosen his creaking jaw so his voice sounds somewhat normal again.

They've become good at this, lately. Each of them – going from zero to a hundred and back again within the course of minutes, if not seconds. It's something new and Sam doesn't quite know how to deal with it, not sure if he wants to deal with it, really. It certainly does feel wrong, somehow.

But today is not the day to change it.

He sighs, flattens the crumbled up corners of the paper with his palms and pretends to scan the headlines again, even though he's done so about a dozen times already.

"No, there's nothing, really. Only a couple of possibly restless spirits about an hour south of here. Nothing serious, though - no casualties so far. There's a woman who claims that her dead mother appears in her old home's living room every night, watching her prepare dinner. So far she hasn't done more than watch her, though, even though the poor woman is scared half to death every time mommy appears."

Sam snorts, turns the page to the second article he's found.

"And there's a man a couple towns over who's been dead for a year but who apparently still likes to visit his favourite movie theater every Wednesday night. He has this thing for horror classics – how fitting – appears sitting in his favourite chair, eating popcorn and drinking coke every week like clockwork. Only problem is, if the seat's occupied, he kinda throws whoever sitting there a couple of seats over…"

Smirking, Sam picks up his coffee and takes a casual sip while flipping through the pages of the paper, eyes intently scanning for anything else, anything worth their effort. Scanning for signs, unusual weather patterns, broken seals, the nearing apocalypse – signs of Lucifer breaking free of his cage and walking the earth while they are eating their breakfast.

But he finds nothing.

"That paper mention the names of the spirits?" Dean asks and Sam distractedly grunts in affirmation.

"Alright, so we go there tonight, salt and burn us a couple of bones and can even keep the room in that ugly yet budgety motel we're currently staying at." Dean says, one hand wrapped loosely around his cup of coffee.

Sam shakes his head, scans the page with the obituaries again with a frustrated sigh.

Nothing.

He shouldn't be so unhappy about finding nothing, about hell giving them a break, so to speak. But somehow he rather wants to act – now. He wants to get all this shit over and done with once and for all. And a couple of restless spirits in some podunk town in the middle of nowhere that have nothing to do with the apocalypse don't manage to excite him very much these days.

"They are just restless, Dean, not angry spirits. Nobody got hurt so far. It hardly warrants us driving down there, wasting gas and salt and a lot of effort on bones that might never turn angry after all."

Taking a sip of his coffee Sam pushes the paper aside, starts with a local college paper he's found at the newsstand, starts reading the headlines haphazardly. There had to be _something…_

"Might not, might be… I say if there's nothing else we gotta do and we're in the vicinity anyhow, we might as well take the precaution. Beats coming back here a couple of months from now when the movie-theater guy decides that he's really, really done with people sitting in his seat, or mom not liking the way her daughter treats the silver platter she left her and starts throwing with those shiny kitchen knives…" Dean retorts calmly as he turns the cup of coffee between his fingers.

Sam throws his brother a quick, incredulous look, folding up the second newspaper and depositing it on the seat next of him.

"No, I'm telling you, it's not worth it. I say we stay here another night, then pack up and travel up north, see if Bobby got something new on those dead cows he caught a whiff of last week. Maybe it was a seal after all…"

"Yeah, or maybe it was just mad cows disease, or a stray cougar, just like Bobby told us it looked like when we talked about it – _last week_."

There definitely is an edge to Dean's voice now – an edge Sam doesn't like.

"I'm not gonna take on a hunt that isn't even there," he says, voice low, cutting the sentence off as the waitress once again approaches their table, depositing their plates in front of them.

Sam can't help but notice the kids-sized plate placed in front of his brother, untypical for Dean for sure and laughably small compared to his own huge plate laden with eggs and toast.

They both wait silently as the woman pulls away from their table again, now clearly aware of the fact that neither of them is even remotely interested – and clearly being put off because of it, if the pout on her face is anything to go by.

Dean barely waits until she is out of earshot till he leans forward, one hand balled into a fist on the tabletop.

"Y_ou're _not going to take a hunt that isn't even there? _We're_ not going to take care of the only hunt we're currently aware of?"

Dean's chin dips down in a sign of irritation as his brows bounce up, once, before they draw tight over the bridge of his nose.

"Who the hell died and made you boss?"

At that Sam finally abandons his semi-relaxed pose and leans forward as well, their faces inches away from each other across their still steaming food. His own hands are fisted in a mirror image to his brother's and he can once again feel that buzzing sound in his head that just won't go away anymore, lately but only notches up like this when he's pissed – or downright angry.

"_You, _Dean. You died and made me fucking boss. You left and went to _Hell _andlet me handle this by myself,"

He sees Dean flinch as he mentions Hell, has the decency to feel bad for a split second before his mouth just goes on moving, spitting out words he wouldn't have spoken, no matter how angry, ever before.

"And then you come back and think nothing's changed, that we can just go back to the way things have been before? Well, I got a newsflash for you, Dean. Things are _not_ the way they were before. Not with the world falling apart all around us and we're the only one who have a shot at stopping it from happening. And I think I did earn my right to make decisions for the both of us every once in a while."

Dean's eyes never leave Sam's, but for seconds there is nothing, no words, not even one single emotion flickering across his features. And then, suddenly, there _is _a flicker of something. Dean's eyes squint shut momentarily, brows drawing together and he quickly leans away from Sam, retreating back into his seat, bringing some distance between them. He lets his arm slips off the table to rest seemingly casually on his lap, takes a couple of forcefully calm breaths before he opens his eyes again.

Sam can't help to feel baffled, can't help the curious frown contorting his own features, the worry minutely pushing down his anger and feelings of indignity. But before he can say anything, before he can inquire any further Dean has closed himself off again, his features schooled into that carefully crafted mask holding this quiet stoicism that almost drives Sam mad.

"Alright. So if this is too unimportant for you, if you're not wasting your precious time on something as banal as this, I guess it'll be just me all by my pretty lonesome then. You stay and…do whatever it is you're planning on doing - and I'll be back again tomorrow. That is, if you're still here then…?"

There's a challenge in his words, but not in his tone, and Sam irritably scrunches his brows, blown by Dean's apparent lack of steam, the unwillingness to rise to the bait Sam laid out for him. Sam wants his brother to fight, wants him to shout and scream even. Everything but this…this quiet acceptance. Everything but this almost dead look in his eyes.

"You're not going without me," Sam snaps, irritated.

"Well, you _are _welcome to join my in my unimportant little quest if you want. I'm not gonna hold you back…" Dean shrugs, fingers playing with his fork.

Sam can't believe it, can't believe his brother. Can't believe he once again got backed into a corner he can't seem to find a way out of without doing any serious damage.

It leaves him reeling, struggling for words to say that won't make him sound like a spoiled little brat, don't sound indignant and childish. Don't make him sound as if _he's_ the one trying to pick a fight here.

He takes a deep breath, releases it slowly.

For now he will let this go. Partly because Dean is right and they _should_ take care of this. It's rare enough they have the opportunity to stop something from happening _before_ things turn real ugly. And another part of him doesn't want to fight. Not because he doesn't have the better arguments here, but because he's just tired of it.

It's wearing him thin – wearing them thin. Dangerously so.

Besides, there's still plenty of time to continue this later, to force Dean to admit to being wrong on so many levels he can't even begin to count them all.

"Fine, _fine_. I guess it can't hurt if we go and check it out," Sam concedes grudgingly, consciously smoothing his fingers out from the painful fists they've been clenched in.

"Alrighty, then,"

Sam picks up his fork, started stabbing irritably at his heap of eggs and toast.

They taste like ash, but they at least manage to wash away the bitter taste in his mouth, even though it can't satisfy that other, underlying craving that's been bubbling at the bottom of his stomach for hours already.

It's been more than three days since...

But that has to wait, he can take care of it later. Food doesn't satisfy him like it did before, but it manages to wash away that tiny, tingling sense of unease that tries to settle in his brain.

So, Dean seems a little off – something's definitely not right. But that's hardly anything new. Maybe there's some new, mind-blowing revelations he's waiting to drop on his little brother.

"_Oh, by the way…I just remembered another shocking thing I did while I was in hell.__ Wanna hear it? But you can't do anything to make it better, just listen and then never mention it again…"_

Or maybe it's simply that he isn't sleeping well again. He hasn't slept well ever since coming back. Sam's no idiot. He sees the bags under Dean's eyes, the exhaustion emanating from his big brother's very core.

He's probably dreaming about hell again – the eating less and drinking more is a sure enough giveaway. Dean has never _stopped_ dreaming, actually - it's been going on ever since he came back and has only gotten worse instead of better.

And the dreams Sam can't help Dean with – isn't allowed to help him with. He's tried – god knows he has. But Dean, stubborn idiot that he is, doesn't think Sam's capable enough, apparently. Dean's so content in his role of the victim here; he doesn't even give Sam the chance to try.

Sam searches his brother's face – inconspicuously – trying to figure out if it's something he has to know, something that will affect Dean during hunts and possibly endanger them both.

But there's nothing to see, nothing Dean lets him see. And if that's the way he wants to play it…

Besides, Dean is probably up and running under his normal steam by tomorrow, back to his old, annoying and bossy self.

Nothing to worry about.

Sam finishes his breakfast in silence and is so content in his feelings of impending _normalcy,_ he doesn't notice Dean's not finishing his own plate of eggs, barely touches a piece of toast, even.

When they leave the diner and get into the car to start driving down south, they once again settle into their normal routine of late - travelling in silence. Sam takes the fact that Dean's music is tuned down lower than usual as a concession from his brother. Dean doesn't usually say he's sorry – not out loud at least. He shows Sam, with little things, like giving him first dibs at the shower, or not turning his music up to ear-splitting levels when they're driving.

So, maybe the Siren shook things up a little between them, and maybe they _both_ need to work on being brothers again with a little more effort.

There's still plenty of time, though.

Once Sam defeats Lillith and shows his brother that he's really only doing all this for _him_, that Dean is being the selfish one here thinking Sam has other motives…once this is all over, they can work on going back to normal.

But for now all is as alright as it is going to be these days.

OoOoOoO

"I can't believe you missed it,"

Sam hurls his duffel into the Impala's trunk, fully aware at how harsh he's sounding, how he's punishing his brother by mistreating his beloved car. And still it gives him this…weird kind of satisfaction, hearing the heavy weapons duffel give a loud _thunk_ as it hits the false floor to the weapon's compartment.

It's strange between them, in more ways than one, and part of Sam knows it's wrong, knows he should feel wrong about enjoying to cause his brother pain, no matter how unreasonable that pain is. It's only a damn car, anyways. But, lately it almost feels to him as if his brother cares more about _her_ than he cares about _him_.

A lot of things have changed between them, it seems. And Dean just can't get his head out of his own ass long enough to see that it's not Sam who has done most of the changing.

And isn't this just now the biggest, fucking proof right here?

"You had a clear shot. She was right in front of you, dude. How could you miss it?" Sam asks again when Dean doesn't answer back to him. He turns, not stepping out of the way though, refusing to let his big brother off so easily.

He's asked a justified question, deserves an open answer. Because, one of the things that _has_ changed while Dean was in Hell is that Sam's not so easily deflected anymore. He's no longer Dean's sidekick, can hunt by himself, care for himself. He's no longer the little brother who has to be pushed or pulled out of the line of fire, who has to be protected by all means.

Dean's a couple of steps behind him.

He's standing just outside the tiny circle of moonlight filtering through the trees at the side of the road where they've parked the Impala before taking off toward the house where they just burned the bones – and the lock of hair the spirit's loving daughter had kept in a picture frame on the living room wall. Sam can't really be sure because Dean's practically hiding in darkness, but he thinks he sees his brother straightening his stance as he catches Sam looking at him – as if he's been bent over before.

But before Sam can comment on it, can ask Dean if he is alright – he has been thrown down the house's stairs, after all - Dean looks up at him. His eyes remain carefully hidden under lowered lashes though as he strides forward, two slightly swaggerish, bow-legged steps until he's next to Sam. Pushing his shoulder against Sam's he forces him to move over a little as he deposits his own duffel in the trunk next to Sam's.

"So I missed it. It happens, Sam. Still was a little dizzy from that drop down the stairs,"

His tone is so…noncommittal, Sam can't help but frown. He's expected defensiveness, snarkiness – venomous accusation fired back at him.

"You fell _after_ missing the shot," Sam snaps back, regretting the quip as he hears it pass his lips.

God, he sounds just like Dad. Back when he used to reprimand Dean and Sam for every tiny thing that went wrong. Back then, Sam had hated it. Hearing those words come out of his own mouth now makes him squirm inside.

Dean's face tightens, his brows drawing together, his jaw locking. He's got one hand on the rim of the trunk, ready to slam it shut but he halts in mid-movement, his fingers clenching around the metal so hard Sam thinks he can hear bones popping and metal creaking.

Sam braces himself.

But what happens next is what always seems to happen lately. Dean closes himself off, lets it go. The tension slips out of his body so quickly, Sam is, for a moment, not even sure if it's ever even been there or if he is just imagining things.

"Whatever dude. You saved the day. _Go you_. You want me to bring out the champagne or can we just get back on the road now?"

His hand is still on the trunk lid and he's looking at Sam – squarely at him for a second or two.

Dean's always so…veiled, lately, outwardly quiet and subdued almost, but Sam can feel the accusation, the silent appraisal whenever Dean thinks Sam is unaware. Which he isn't – not anymore. He's hyper-aware of everything around him, feels and sees and _knows_ so much more now.

They hold each other's eyes for a moment, neither of them willing to look away first, and again it comes as a surprise when Dean's the one to avert his gaze first. He uses the motion of slamming the trunk shut as a distraction, turns away as eye-contact breaks for a second only and doesn't give Sam even the remote chance of picking their silent exchange back up again.

Then Dean turns and walks toward the driver's door, leaves Sam standing there.

Sam stays where he is for a moment, staring off into space, his jaw creaking under the pressure he's putting on it. It's the telltale and way too familiar creak of the Impala's driver's door that rips him out of his thoughts and he quickly steps around the car's tail end to move toward the passenger side door, finally.

He's barely inside when Dean revs up her engine and pulls away from her hiding place, guiding her back out onto the blacktop.

The music that comes on as the motor starts is loud enough to make any conversation pretty much fruitless.

Dean has been blasting his music – especially after a hunt, for as long as Sam can remember. He's gotten used to it by now.

It doesn't strike Sam until much later, sitting in the car with Ruby while Dean is asleep back in their room, that his brother adjusted the volume on his ancient cassette deck only minutes into the drive, that he shut it off completely before they were even halfway home.

And just as he's about to wonder about his brother's behaviour, he forgets all about it again. He's got more important things to worry about now.

He's doing the right thing here. And he can't let the fact that he's doing it without his brother's knowledge bother him right now.

OoOoOoO

TBC

_AN:_

_As usual, I'm nervous beyond belief about posting this. I he spent the past months working through some personal issues – where it simply was easier to not add the pressure of posting to the load I already was carrying around. But I discovered that writing is only half the fun if nobody gets to read it._

_I find this Season hard to write – it's such an emotionally loaded Season – and I hate how the boys see to be drifting apart as the Season progressed. But this story just popped into my head and maybe I had to write this because I needed to work out what happened to the brothers. I hope it does make at least a shred of sense to y'all, too!_

_I appreciate every review you wanna leave me – unless it's rude and hurtful __Keep in mind I have a fragile psyche._

_So then – hope to hear from you and take care!_


	2. Chapter 2

_I wanted to thank everyone who took the time last week to read and review the first chapter of Torn & Frayed. I had some trouble with my Internet and didn't get to answer every one of you yet, but I will get to it, I swear. _

_I was totally taken by surprise by how many people are still willing to read my stories - and I feel very honored to have found so many faithful readers here. _

_So - it's late and unortunately I don't make any money writing fanfiction, so I have to get to work tomorrow morning...so here it goes. I hope you enjoy:_

**Torn & Frayed**

**Chapter 2**

OoOoOoO

Sam makes it back into the room long after midnight. He's been out a lot longer than he'd planned on; it has taken him a lot longer this time to get his…cravings satisfied and himself back under control afterwards.

Surprisingly, he feels a little pang of guilt as he eases the key into the lock of their motel room, trying to be as quiet as possible as he opens the door and slips inside. But the guilt quickly turns into irritation as he realizes he really shouldn't be feeling like this. And he certainly shouldn't have to be keeping secrets, sneaking behind someone's back. For 4 whole months he and Ruby have been doing whatever they wanted whenever they felt like it.

No hiding, no lying.

It feels…strange, to say the least. For months he'd wanted nothing more than to have his brother back. But now he does have him back he doesn't seem to be able to come to terms with him being here – all the time, watching Sam's every move with critical, judging eyes.

Sam wanted his brother back, with all his heart.

The only thing he now misses, though, is the freedom to do things on his own schedule – not having to answer to anyone but himself.

Keeping secrets has once again become part of his life.

And he's become quite good at it, Sam reflects - sneaking out and sneaking back in at the weirdest hours of the pitch dark night is like second nature to him by now. He can undress almost soundlessly in the dark without making too much of a fuss and avoid waking his brother. He's sneaky as hell now, but Sam knows all his stealth would have been of close to no use with Dean – before Hell.

But Dean's sleep is different nowadays.

He used to be impossible to sneak up on. Despite sleeping deeply and long, he'd be awake at the smallest sound. It was about always being ready, no matter what – never knowing what would strike at any possible time during night or day.

Back when they were little Sam would be able to sleep peacefully knowing that his brother kept watch, would wake up the second something tried to sneak up on them – would wake up the minute the door to their motel-room or apartment opened when their dad came back home from a hunt. Dean would be up and aware, ready to take control - to either fight some unknown enemy or tend to their father's wounds when a hunt had left him a little worse for wear.

And he'd always been awake and ready when Sam had had one of his nightmares, always by Sam's side the minute he woke crying or screaming or both.

But ever since coming back from hell, Dean's sleep is way off.

He tries to delay going to sleep more and more often and he seems to need more and more alcohol to get him to a state where he can finally allow himself to slip off. But when he finally does fall asleep, he's out cold. And his sleep has become a little too deep, as a matter of fact.

It's no secret, no matter how much Dean would like to keep it one, that he's started dreaming since…Hell.

But the dreams, no matter how horrible they happen to be, don't manage to wake Dean. He's passed out so thoroughly, Sam has trouble waking him by force when the nightmares become too terrible, make his mumble or sometimes even whimper – uttering unintelligible words that still portray the terror he's going through all too clearly.

It's like even though he's physically out of Hell, it remains a terribly reality in his dreams.

Sam feels terrible about it– more terrible than he's able to put into words.

And still it's this exactly what makes it so much easier for him to sneak behind his brother's back now.

Once Dean drops off, it's almost too easy for Sam to sneak out to meet up with Ruby. Lately, Sam has been waiting almost anxiously until his brother finally succumbed to sleep.

But last night – or early this morning - it had been surprisingly easy.

On their way back from the hunt they hadn't discussed the hunt or Dean's missed shot –hadn't talked much at all on their way back to the motel. Dean had been unusually distracted and tired. Even though Sam had been pretty sure his brother hadn't gotten hurt during the fall down the stairs, he'd caught himself carefully checking his brother's movements for any sign of injury or pain.

But other than a slightly loping gait, Dean had seemed to be fine. Probably only sore as hell. So Sam had let it go.

After returning to their motel late last night, Dean had practically flopped down onto his bed, had turned onto his side and dropped off, still fully clothed.

Sam had waited an hour until his brother's breathing had calmed down, his body practically sinking into the mattress. Then he'd taken off. He'd only taken 90 minutes or so with Ruby – 30 of those spent tangled up in the Impala's backseat, before they'd done some _training_. Barely 90 minutes out of the room, and judging from the depth of Dean's sleep when he'd left, Sam had had no doubt his brother would still be out when he got back.

The room is dark and silent when Sam returns. He doesn't even give his eyes time to adjust to the darkness but quietly deposits the Impala's keys on the table next to the door before making his way across the room toward his bed.

It's not until Sam sits down on the lumpy mattress to pull off his boots that he realizes Dean is not in the bed next to his.

Immediately, he practically freezes, panic curling his guts and paralyzing his lungs, his face exploding with heat as the rest of his body covers with goose bumps within the course of a second.

_Dean knows_.

It's the first thing that comes to mind, followed closely by the though that, if he feels guilty about what he's doing – how can it be right, then? But he discards the thought as quickly as it entered his mind. He isn't doing anything wrong; just because it's not the course of action his brother would choose, it still doesn't make Sam's the wrong one. But years of looking up to his brother, idolizing him in ways other boys worship their fathers have left heir mark, somehow.

Pulling back his shoulders until his spine cracks dangerously, Sam sits up straighter, ridding himself of the guilt, the feeling of _wrong_ that lingers somewhere at the back of his mind, always. Even before Dean came back into the picture there'd always been this sense of…foreboding, only back then Sam had been able to look past it all so much easier.

But desperate times call for desperate measures. And these times definitely are the most desperate ones, but Sam has the means to make everything better again. Soon.

He thought it would get easier with time, the guilt about what he's doing somewhat lessening, and most of the times, it really does. But there're still times – mostly when he's with his big brother - that it doesn't quite work that way.

And it drives him crazy. Even now that he's definitely doing the right thing – and still he feels guilty as fucking _Hell_.

Sam wipes his hands on his jeans, tries to regain his composure. So far he doesn't even know if Dean's actually aware Sam hasn't been here, curled up underneath the covers, sleeping peacefully. It's still possible he only padded into the bathroom to take a leak, never really opening his eyes on the way there.

Dean's bed looks like it always does these days. It's rumpled and a little damp, but the blanket is still tucked in since he has, inexplicably, has taken to sleeping on top of the covers more often than underneath them nowadays. He's not sleeping on his stomach anymore either, Sam reflects, mostly stays on his side or back, only covering up with a jacket if he bothers to get at least partly undressed at all. It seems as if he's always ready, as if he wants to stay alert so he can get moving, keep running.

As if he's hoping to be able to outrun the nightmares that are chasing him on a nightly basis.

For a second, sitting on his bed in the dark and staring at his brother's empty bed in front of him Sam thinks that maybe this time Dean actually has run off – for real this time. That he'd woken up and found Sam gone and ran off to find him – or run away from him once and for all. But Sam has taken the car, and even pissed as hell and mad at his little brother, Dean would never, ever leave without is beloved Impala. Never. Sometimes Sam even thinks that the car is the only thing still keeping Dean here, by his little brother's side.

It's the only thing they still have in common.

Sam's still thinking about whether or not to get up and check – just to make sure, if Dean's wallet and duffel are still there a sound from the adjoining bathroom has him up on his feet and spinning around so fast, he almost gets dizzy. The dizziness – it's an addition to the 'training' he's come to expect. It's usually gone within a couple of hours – and he's getting more and more used to it.

One or two deep breaths later Sam is steady on his feet once more, facing the bathroom door.

Someone's in the bathroom – _Dean's_ in the bathroom. Of course he is – where else would he be? Dean's not the one with a history of running away from his family…

But the relief of knowing his brother to actually still be here is not quite as big as Sam thought it would be. Sam can't help but anticipate the storm that will break out once Dean comes out – if he actually knows Sam wasn't in the room when he went in there.

But Dean doesn't come out for some endless minutes, the door to the bathroom firmly closed with not even a sliver of light sneaking its way out from underneath it. It takes Sam way too long to finally place the muted sounds he's hearing from the dark room beyond.

But once Sam clearly makes out the sounds of his brother throwing up, retching and coughing desperately, his defensive stance drops as quickly as if it's never been there to begin with. His fists unclench at his sides as he takes a step out from between the beds, straining to hear better.

The flush of the toilet interrupts his thoughts and he's still about to take a step back, to sit down on his bed again so it doesn't look as if he's been spying on his brother when the door opens and Dean steps into the semi-darkness of the bedroom.

Even without the lights on Sam has no trouble detecting his brother's slightly hunched over posture as he takes a step, then another, one hand laying flat against his belly, palm of the other rubbing down over his mouth before he lets it drop to his side. His eyes are cast down as he makes his way around Sam's bed, moving toward his own. He detects Sam standing in his way just a step or two short of walking right into him.

He stops, jerks back almost, head snapping up.

"Jesus, Sam…" he swallows, gaze flicking up, quickly skittering away again. "You trying to give me a freakin' heart attack?"

His eyes, albeit veiled by the room's darkness cannot hide the flash of…_something_ as his ducks down his chin, sets his lips. Sam sees Dean's hand drop away from his belly, fingers curling inwards momentarily before going lax again to hang with forced casualness at his side. But his demeanour, the sound of his voice, which is rough and raw, betray his outwardly relaxed countenance and Sam smirks in sympathy. He knows the taste of puke won't go away for quite a while, no matter how much water Dean drinks or how many times he brushes his teeth.

"What the hell are you doing up, anyways?" Dean asks, still refusing to make eye contact.

Sam is not sure if his brother is playing with him, testing him, but he feels irritation at his brother's indifferent behaviour slowly start boiling in his guts again.

Does Dean know that Sam has been gone…maybe even knows where he's been and who he's been with? Does he know and just wants to test Sam, waiting if he'll offer an explanation of his own volition?

For a second, the room is eerily silent.

The only sound in the room comes from the radio clock on their nightstand, ticking away the seconds like some sort of ominous countdown. Sam squints his eyes shut as the sound is seemingly amplified by the silence dominating the room, the sound of his own heartbeat suddenly, nauseatingly joining right into the noise storming through his head.

And then, as if someone flipped a switch, everything is silent again.

It takes Sam a moment to realize that it's his brother's voice that broke the spell.

"'m sorry if I woke you. I just…" Dean trails off, gestures toward the bathroom before averting the gesture to run hard fingers down his neck, turning his head away.

Another flash of something, but again Sam can't be sure because the lighting is so poor. But he could swear…

"You can go back to sleep…I'll be quiet," Dean offers with another quick, almost apologetic look.

For a second Sam is shocked as Dean's face appears almost ghost-like in the dusk that fills the room, shadows accentuating the hollows underneath his eyes and cheekbones which make his face look almost like a skeleton for a moment. The image is gone as quickly as it appeared, but it leaves Sam breathless for a moment, makes him suck in a breath and take an automatic step back before he can stop himself.

Almost instantly he wants to undo it, wants to step forward and grab Dean, hold him…because this is the face he's been seeing every single night as well as every waking moment when Dean has been gone. He's seen Dean like this, looking like a corpse but still moving, still breathing – but not living. Rotting away in hell, a mere shadow of the man he's once been.

But before he can do anything Dean slips past him, their shoulder barely brushing as he makes his way back to his bed and lowers himself down on top of the covers again.

Dean is still wearing his jeans and a t-shirt, the same clothes he's worn during the hunt last night. A dark sweat-stain soils his t-shirt from collar to hem, clinging to his back between his shoulder blades. Frowning, Sam watches his brother with worried curiosity.

He really should say something, but he isn't sure what would be the right approach here. Dean's not likely to share, and with everything that's happened between them lately Sam's afraid any question about his brother's physical condition will only trigger another fight. Or another spell of laden silence.

"Go back to sleep, Sam. Still got a couple hours till check-out. I'll try and not wake you again."

So he really doesn't know.

The mixture between relief and even bigger worry is confusing.

Sam can't help but wonder how terrible the nightmare must have been if his brother is this pale, this shaken – so shaken he didn't even realize that Sam's bed was empty when he made a dash for the bathroom upon waking up. Alone.

There is something, a shred of a doubt nagging at Sam's brain, his conscience. Chewing his lips he barely resists the urge to go down on his knees and ask his brother for forgiveness – or tell Dean to screw himself. He's been gone for 4 whole months, goddamn it, and Sam had to find _some_ way to deal. Anything to deal. Anything to make the agonizing pain go away and the pit in his stomach fill with something else but hatred and revenge and nauseating sorrow.

But Sam keeps quiet.

Instead, he sits down on the edge of his own bed and watches silently as his brother shuffles on his mattress, turns his back toward Sam and drapes the green shirt he's been wearing earlier over his shoulder.

Readying himself for another hour or more of relentless terrors haunting him in his sleep. In the taut set of his back shoulders Sam can read just how much the terrible anticipation weighs on his brother.

Sam sighs, clasps his hands between his knees and stares at the floor for a moment. The high he's experienced only hours before is still coursing though his system yet waning fast as reality bears down on him again. This is what he hates with a vengeance – the inevitable low after the high that makes his stomach tingle and all his senses sharpen to an extent he feels invulnerable, unbeatable.

As if, every time he return to his brother's side he's pulled down, held back…suffocated…

The wave of wrong washing over him at the thought lasts a little longer this time around, makes him dizzy as he realizes what he's thinking, feeling. That he'd be better off without his brother. Stronger.

Part of him knows it's wrong, that it can't be true. They always were strongest as a team, weren't they? It's the only reason they're still alive…

And still there's those words, whispered into his ears, bouncing through his brain like balls in a pinball machine; words telling him that Dean is not strong enough, not good enough. That he's not the Dean he used to be – and he'll only hold Sam back.

Sam's fingers are creaking under the pressure of his iron fists, fingertips turning white as he clenches his hands together so violently he thinks he might break something.

He really doesn't know if he can do this much longer…

"Hey, you alright?"

Dean's voice makes Sam jump, makes the underlying feeling of guilt – totally unjustified as it is - intensify a thousand-fold and for a moment overcome everything else.

When Sam snaps his head up, momentarily squinting as his vision wavers, colors intensifying with the motion he finds Dean's eyes on him and there's only so much he can do to not automatically recoil.

"What?"

"Asked if you're OK?" Dean repeats, only the whites of his eyes showing in the gloom of the room and Sam thinks they're a little glassy, but it might just be an illusion. Everything feels kinda off, lately.

"Yeah, I'm Ok. Just…thinking," he offers around a lump in his throat, dropping his chin to shield his eyes, hoping that Dean can't see the lie in his expression.

"How 'bout you?" he asks casually, going for deflection even though he knows Dean – the certified master of deflection - will probably be able to see right through him.

And the question is a moot one at best because Sam knows Dean won't share.

"…fine. I'm fine,"

"Yeah, right. That why you've been puking your guts out in the bathroom just minutes ago?"

Dean flinches a little, his eyes shifting from Sam's face to a spot on his right shoulder.

"Must have been the burrito not sitting well with me," he answers quietly.

"We had burger last night," Sam challenges, not quite as softly as he would like.

He can't help this constant irritation that swamps him when being around his brother lately. As if Dean is intentionally provoking him, prodding him, pushing him to snap so he can unleash his repertoire of unfounded accusations at Sam again.

"Well, then the burger didn't sit well," Dean concedes, not rising to the bait. "'m fine now – got it out of my system. Go to sleep, Sam."

And with that, he turns around again. The shirt he's been using as a blanket slips off his body in the process, laying free his right shoulder. There's a streak of pale blue light sneaking its way in from between the curtains, the neon light of the motel's signpost eerily illuminating the raised handprint that adorns Dean's shoulder.

It's like a beacon, beckoning Sam and pushing him away at the same time, mocking him with the knowledge that Dean was saved by a freaking angel – chosen by god himself while Sam is tangling with forces he really doesn't understand. Forces that frighten him – or used to frighten him but are now just a part of him. It used to be Sam who was special - the chosen one. And now Dean is claiming that title for himself, too.

It's not enough that Dean is older, faster, the better shot, the better hunter; the better son in their father's eyes.

Sam is staring at the handprint, unable to tear his eyes away. He's leaning forward, his hands almost shaking as he disentangles clammy fingers, ready to reach out and touch the handprint, fit his palm to the raised and shiny-smooth looking skin on his brother's shoulder. He's never before touched it, never before looked at it for any longer period of time, either. Dean's strangely self-conscious about it for some reason, keeps covering it up whenever he comes out of the bathroom, pulling the sleeves of his t-shirt down low so it stays hidden from view.

Seeing it now…

Just this moment a shiver rakes through Dean's body, starting from the tips of his toes and making its way up to the very top of his head. Before Sam can as much as tear his eyes away from the angelic handprint to check on his brother though, Dean's reaches for the slipped down shirt, pulls it higher once more. The he shifts, burying his face in the pillow while keeping his back as a shield between Sam and himself.

As if he _feels_ Sam's watching him…

As the handprint disappears beneath the cotton of Dean's shirt again, it feels to Sam as if the paralysis that held him captive is suddenly broken. His breath comes easier again and he swallows hard as he leans back once more, physically distancing himself from his brother's curled up form on the mattress across from him.

But he can't help but keep staring, his eyes not able to draw away from Dean, so he just sits there for endless minutes, watching his brother's back, wondering what happened to him – to _them_.

Wondering if they'll ever be able to fix this…

It takes forever until Dean finally drifts off this time, until he slips into the deep, dreamless sleep that looks so peaceful but only ever precedes the garish nightmares that have come to haunt him.

Sam knows the exact moment his brother lets go, can tell by the way his breathing shifts to the deep, steady rhythm he can't ever fake.

Only then does Sam allow himself to tear his eyes away from his brother's back, shuffling back on the mattress to slip underneath his own covers. He turns his own back toward Dean, eyes on the window, praying that sleep will come to him too, somehow.

There used to be a time when the sound and rhythm of Dean's breathing in the bed next to his was enough to chase away any fear and doubt and pain clouding Sam's mind and helped him fall asleep within minutes.

But, yeah – many things have changed. Too many to ever come to terms with really; and this is just one them.

OoOoOoO

_AN:_

_Just a quick note tonight: I know this is a bit different to how I usually write, which is why i'm all the more anxious about posting - but all the wonderful reviews have made me feel a lot better about it already. _

_I apologize that this chapter is a bit shorter than usual, but the week was pretty stressful, and I could only get this part edited to my satisfaction. And I'm still doing my best on the grammar and spelling front - don't laugh if you still detect mistakes, though._

_I really hope this chapter now doesn't dissapoint._

_Thanks so much for your time and have a great week - till next one!_

_Take care!_


	3. Chapter 3

_First off, I would like to thank all those wonderful people reading and reviewing - or simply reading and favoriting my stories and thus showing me they care. Also, there's a number of people writing to me anonymously, so I wanna take this chance to tell you how much I appreciate your kind words. I know my writing is nowhere nearly as good as you keep assuring me, but I am flattered by the support I'm experiencing here. It's amazing!_

_Secondly - this totally was meant to be posted last week, but wouldn't let me. You see - it really, really wasn't my fault!_

_This chapter is not beta-ed, so be warned...i hope the mistakes aren't too horrible!_

_I still don't own them, unfortunately._

_Here we go, the new chapter:_

**Torn & Frayed**

**Chapter 3**

They don't manage to sleep in the next morning.

After going back to sleep in the early morning hours Dean sleeps like dead for exactly 3 hours and 47 minutes before he starts twitching, his breathing once again changing from deep and silent to quick, shallow pants.

Sam's awake the moment his brother starts tossing, a panicked whimper escaping tightly set lips, is sitting up just as his brother mutters his first, breathless 'NO'. The one, barely audible word transports such loads of pure terror, Sam feels his gut clench and his heart ache for his brother as he sits on the edge of his bed, wringing his hands in a mock replay of just hours before. Back then he was watching and hoping his brother would fall asleep. Now, he's hoping he'll wake up. Soon.

Sam has learned from experience that waking his brother when he's like this is not a good thing.

When he pulls Dean out by force his brother will be distraught, confused – will wake up swinging a fist or muttering pleas for mercy which break a part of Sam, no matter how loaded their relationship is at the moment. Sam has tried physically waking Dean, he's tried talking or yelling at him, but the effect is pretty much the same no matter what he does.

And the worst is the look of raw _pain_ in Dean's eyes when he comes back around – a moment or two only, usually, before he remembers and finds the strength to built up his walls once more, hiding inside himself so deeply not even he himself seems to be able to find a way out of again.

Not until the next nightmare hits.

And each and every time leaves him a bit more frayed than the last one.

Sam can't do this to his brother, can't force him awake and strip him off his defenses like that, even though a part of him wants Dean to open up and share. There are times when Sam's willing to risk it – the feeble trust that somehow still exists between them. Sometimes he wants to wake Dean and shake some sense into him and force him to admit to being scared, to being terrified. Maybe – before the siren toyed with them and laid them bare in front of each other, Sam would have had success with his method, somehow.

Maybe Dean would have, eventually, trusted his brother enough to let him in.

But not anymore.

Their bond is strong – much stronger than Sam ever thought; the reason they are still here, together, is the best proof. But it's not indestructible – and it has taken some deep, almost severing cuts lately.

So Sam waits in tense silence, watching his brother as if by pure will he can make Dean wake up, can help him escape Hell again. Because he hasn't really been a lot of help the first time around…

He watches for the better part of 15 minutes until it becomes too much, until he can't take another word of Dean's incomprehensible curses and please and he starts calling out to his brother, his voice slowly rising in volume when it becomes clear that Dean won't be roused quite so easily.

He's just short of breaching the last barrier – to get up and touch his brother, shake him out of his dreams, when Dean's eyes finally snap open. His pupils are blown wide – barely a thin ring of green still surrounding them as they frantically skip across the ceiling, his breath catching in his throat, fingers curled tightly around the gold amulet laying against the base of his throat.

Sam can tell the exact moment his brother realizes where he is and who he's with, sees his brothers walls slamming down so hard Sam thinks he can physically feel the repercussion vibrate through his very being.

Flinching, Sam sets his jaw, waits. He stays right where he is this time, neither moving forward nor backing away or even attempting to pretend he hasn't been watching his brother. He's tried pretending to not know, has tried pretending to not have heard before.

He's tried to keep his brother's dignity intact.

But since Dean doesn't tire in letting Sam feel how disappointed he is about the decisions Sam made – was forced to make – Sam thinks he's done with keeping his own feelings in check, too.

He keeps watching as Dean takes a few, shaking breaths, sees him blink rapidly, lips parting and tongue darting out to wet chapped and broken lips. His hand flattens against his chest, pressing against his sternum for a moment as if to ground himself before he lets it slip off, trailing over the mattress to grip its edge. Then he sits up – slow and tentatively. He keeps his back toward Sam, his shoulders tense underneath his once again damp shirt as he takes a moment to get his bearings.

But when he stands and turns around his eyes are once again unreadable, his face a stoic mask, his whole body betraying the tension it had been locked in just minutes before.

"Hey," he rasps as he finally looks at Sam, chin down and eyes hooded.

"Hey," Sam replies, his voice as tense as the set of his brother's shoulders.

He feels his jaw creaking, almost hurting, the furrow between his brows like a chasm as he keeps staring at his brother, daring him to look away.

"Sleep well?"

Dean's face remains impassive, but one of his hands shoots up toward his belly, fingers twitching against his abs before stilling.

"Like a baby."

The reply is expected, and still Sam can't help but snort in disbelief. He shakes his head, finally breaks eye-contact.

"How 'bout you? You rest up, ready to hit the road?" Dean asks off-handedly.

Sam snaps his gaze back to Dean, but his brother has taken the opportunity and averted his gaze, bending down to rummage through a pile of haphazardly dumped pieces of clothing, picking up a semi-rumpled shirt and a pair of jeans. Acting like nothing happened.

So – is this a barb – Dean knowing Sam wasn't here last night, trying to test him? Or is it simply a poor attempt at diversion? Or is it just Dean trying to play normal, pretending he didn't just wake up whimpering and goddamn _begging_ someone to _STOP…?_

Maybe Dean really is stupid enough to believe Sam isn't aware of what's going on with him.

As if Sam can't see…but he can. He can see so much more than his brother gives him credit for and it leaves him helpless and flailing and _angry_.

Helpless because there's nothing he can do to help, flailing because he wants to help but it seems no matter what he does, it only serves to make Dean push him away harder, with more determination. And that, in turn, is what makes Sam angry.

He wants to help. He _could _help, if Dean would only let him. Sam is capable of so much now. He would find a way to help his brother through this as well.

But Dean wouldn't be Dean if he could see that, wouldn't be Dean if he'd let Sam in, for once.

So he disappears into the bathroom and comes back out a half hour later, hair still damp from the shower, face and arms red from the hot water he's doused himself in for the past 30 minutes. And yet he looks somehow worse than before, his eyes bleeding exhaustion and seemingly even more hollow than the past couple of days.

As if he's waning right in front of Sam's eyes.

As if he's visibly getting weaker, just like Ruby keeps telling Sam he is.

As if Hell is still tearing at him, bit by tiny bit, underneath the surface.

Sam keeps watching his brother, not bothering to conceal it, either, as Dean finishes dressing himself and starts packing up their things, then starts loading the car without ever saying more than a couple of words. And after a while Sam gives up. He simply doesn't have the energy left to deal with this right now – the lies and the silence. Even when they're talking, there's this silence between them…

Pulling himself together, Sam gets up, gets into the bathroom.

Dean seems alright now. At least he didn't wake up puking his guts out this time.

Maybe he really does need to handle this by himself.

Sam's the first person to know there simply are things you need to see through on your own.

If Dean thinks he has to suffer through this by himself to prove something…Sam will let him try. And maybe he'll even refrain from saying _'I told you so'_ when Dean finally comes to realize that he should have trusted his brother all along.

OoOoOoO

That evening they search out a strip of forest a few hundred miles to the north for traces of a black dog.

They'd agreed on this hunt without any discussion, for once.

Sam doesn't think there's anything to it, to be honest, and he doesn't think Dean's more convinces than he is.

The newspaper reports they discovered this morning didn't even remotely suggest anything out of the ordinary going on here – only a stray grizzly attacking a couple of hikers in the State Park. The police found tracks near the bodies, found teeth-marks and tufts of fur and even a tooth still embedded in one of the body's thighs.

They both know it's nothing – the only thing they don't have to prove it is actual pictures or videos showing the animal's attack. And still they are here, trudging through the forest as dusk settles around them, slowly deepening the shadows and cloaking the trees in dark grey.

The question why they are even here keeps running through Sam's head, but he's not as annoyed as he should be – would be under different circumstances. It's not like he is any more fond of hiking than his brother, but the diversion this pseudo-hunt offers them is a welcome one, for once.

It gives them both time to keep out of trouble, to steer away from another fight – another discussion.

Dean's trying to keep Sam from asking questions about the night before – and Sam avoids talking about it simply so he doesn't raise any questions as to his whereabouts when his brother woke up from his nightmare.

It's a sad but surprisingly familiar behavior with them, lately. They either tear each other to shreds over the simplest of things, or they traipse around each other as if the other might snap at the tiniest pressure.

And a hunt – any hunt at all is the most welcome distraction at the moment. So they go looking for an imaginary black dog, walking through a state park which is pretty much abandoned at this time of the year. It could be worse though, Sam muses – much worse than this. At least it's pretty nice outside today, the forest quiet and peaceful. It gives Sam time to think, make plans for later – when he'll hopefully be able to clip off some time to be with Ruby again.

His thoughts circle around _it_ almost incessantly now – and it becomes harder and harder to concentrate on anything else. Especially his brother, which is goddamn dangerous, Sam knows that.

He knows he should to be on extra high alert around Dean when it comes to his secret training trips – and some other _things_ he's engaging in. Not because Dean's a threat to him or Ruby, not if it actually, truly came down to it. But it's dangerous because Dean has this way of…making Sam feel unreasonably guilty about what he's doing, will maybe manage to even make Sam reconsider his actions. Which would be a waste of precious time.

Sam shakes his head, rids himself of the dark thoughts clouding his mind, trying to focus on the here and now again.

A hunt – imaginary or not. A Black Dog _maybe _hiding in the underbrush or one of the many caves in the area.

_Yeah, right._

Drawing his shoulders back, Sam lengthens his stride, picking up some speed again. The sooner they make it to the end of the trail, the sooner they can turn around again, make their way back.

He finds another cave just as the sun disappears behind the horizon completely, the night swallowing the day once and for all. And here's another reason the Black Dog is nothing but an illusion of their own minds…the attacks on the hikers all took place during the day – or the early evening hours. A Black Dog wouldn't come out till much, much later – under the cover of darkness.

Sighing, Sam snaps on his flashlight and shines it into the bowels of the cave, well aware that, Black Dog or a simple, real grizzly – both can be pretty damn dangerous. He really should be concentrating instead of letting his mind wander like this.

The cave isn't very deep and it takes barely ten seconds to sweep the beam of the flashlight over the walls and floor to determine it's actually empty. The only sign it has ever been occupied are a bunch of wadded of pieces of toilet paper and some empty plastic bottles lying against the far back wall.

"Damn litterers," Sam mumbles under his breath as he switches off the light and turns around again.

He half expects to see Dean watching him, as he always seems to be doing lately when he thinks Sam isn't aware and is caught in the act. Dean will stand and stare but as soon as Sam turns Dean will avert his eyes, look away.

But this time, Dean isn't watching him.

The small clearing in front of the cave is empty.

For a second, Sam freezes.

In that flash of a second he thinks of all the different scenarios.

They've been too careless – the grizzly jumping Dean and dragging him off without Sam noticing. Sam still remembers the Wendigo hunt they'd been on more than four years ago – Dean disappearing from one second to the next…

But no – Sam would have heard – if not the attack then at least the sound of Dean's body getting dragged through the underbrush…

So, maybe Dean merely walked on, leaving Sam to check the cave by himself.

But - thinking about it – Sam now isn't so sure if he's heard his brother's breathing at his back for a couple of minutes already…

"Dean?" he calls out, his worry intensifying when he doesn't get an answer.

He takes a couple of steps into the direction he just came from, eying the beaten path in both directions.

"Dean!"

Still nothing.

The forest around him is quiet, stuck in that moment between day and night when daytime animals hide for the night and the night prowlers aren't out yet.

Sam feels the fine hair on the back of his neck rise.

One hand closing around the hilt of his gun, the flashlight turned off but held securely in his other hand he carefully makes his way back the way he came from. He's on high alert, all senses focused, the constant, low buzz inside his head silent for once as he scans his surroundings intently, determined to not miss anything, not the smallest sound. His whole body wants to run, his mouth aching to call his brother's name once more, but the hunter in him tells him to keep quiet, to save the last moment of surprise and hopefully be able to sneak up on whatever might have taken his brother.

Maybe something did sneak up on Dean – he'd been walking behind Sam and out of his line of sight all the time. Maybe he lagged behind and the grizzly snuck up on him and tackled him and rendered him unconscious.

Maybe…

He hears the sound barely seconds before he rounds a particularly large tree in his path and is forced to stumble to an abrupt stop.

Right there, in the middle of the path is Dean, on his knees, his head down. One hand is braced against the trunk of a tree for support, the other wrapped around his stomach. There is no way Sam could miss the way Dean looks like he's about to pass out right then and there.

"Dean, what the…"

Switching on the flashlight in one swift motion, Sam drops to his knees next to his brother. He's still alert, eyes briefly scanning the surrounding area but finding it empty, so he lets his gun-hand drop, snapping the safety back on before laying the weapon within easy reach on the ground next to him.

Dean doesn't even acknowledge Sam's presence, doesn't even pretend to be alright, to get up, to give Sam the impression that nothing is wrong with him. However many times in the past Sam had wished for a little more honesty from his brother, he suddenly isn't so sure anymore. He feels his gut tighten, a chill racing up his back.

"Dean?"

He reaches out a hand, barely able to retain the flinch of hurt as Dean jerks back from the touch even though his eyes barely ever open at all.

"What…were you attacked? Are you hurt?"

Dean doesn't answer back, only gives a curt shake of his head.

Checking Dean's shirt and the surrounding forest floor, Sam doesn't find any sign of a fight at least, no splattered blood or dismembered body parts.

But if last night's events are anything to go by, Sam has a strong suspicion as to what exactly is wrong with his brother – and why he's so determined not to share.

It has to be the nightmares – the not sleeping and not eating enough which are taking a toll on his brother.

But just when Sam's about to outright ask his brother if this is what's bothering him, what's messing with him so badly, Dean suddenly drops. He barely avoids hitting his forehead on the trunk of the tree as his hand slips off the rough bark, his momentum carrying him forward. He catches himself at the last second, shoulder against the tree, one hand on the damp ground.

Then he gags – starts throwing up with a violence that momentarily stuns Sam into inactivity. He reels back, his nose crinkling in disgust before he can keep himself in check.

The only good thing, Sam supposes, is that there isn't much to be brought up. Dean hasn't been eating much at breakfast this morning and their lunch had consisted of a stale sandwich from the gas-station they'd stopped at only to fill up the Impala.

And now that he's thinking about it…the sandwich had still been lying untouched on the backseat when they'd set off into the forest…

Shuffling forward on his knees Sam moves close to his brother and wraps one hand around Dean's bulging and twisting biceps to support him in his awkward stance.

Dean's trembling. And he's way too hot underneath the thin jacket and shirt he's wearing.

This definitely goes way beyond Dean's usual exhaustion sired by nights of reliving unspeakable terrors. The dreams have to be pretty damn bad to leaver his brother this shaken even during the daytime.

Sam wants to ask his brother what is wrong with him again, even though to him it's already pretty obvious. But he wants Dean to admit to it, wants to prove to his brother how stupid he's acting, keeping his condition a secret, but there's no use. Not right this moment, because Dean seems pretty preoccupied, gagging and retching, his whole body convulsing with the force of the attacks. It sounds terrible, sounds painful as he gasps, gulping in quick, shallow breaths between violent expulsions that make his body heave and coil underneath Sam's palms. All Sam can do at the moment is hold on to his brother and hope he won't be pushed away again once it's all over and Dean's got himself under control again.

He leaves one hand on Dean's arm, sneaking the other one around his back and holding onto his shaking frame. Just like Dean used to hold him back when Sam still was a little kid and got sick and had to spend the night in front of the toilet in one of their many questionably clean bathrooms. Well, minus the hair-holding part.

"Easy, take it easy…" Sam whispers, surprising himself a little when he realizes that his irritation with his brother, the one that has been building gradually over the past weeks and months has vanished the moment he's seen Dean in obvious distress. Obvious physical distress, at least.

It takes endless minutes but eventually the gags ease off a little, give Dean the chance to draw in a halfway decent breath every once in a while. Sam tries to ignore the fact that Dean almost groans from the effort it takes, tries to ignore the fact that he still hasn't straightened, hasn't removed the arm protectively wrapped around his belly.

"Easy…it's gonna be OK," Sam mumbles reflexively, realizing how lame it sounds, how he really has no idea if it's going to be OK, no idea what how it will _ever_ be OK again.

For all he knows, this PTSD is going to tear his brother to shreds and he'll pretend till the very end that he's fine.

But Sam has to do something, and it's the only thing to say. Besides, it's not the words that are meant to soothe but simply the fact of hearing someone, feeling someone there with him that will help Dean get through this. He'd always relied, first and foremost, on his brother's presence when feeling unwell.

"Deep breaths, dude. Easy…just keep breathing…"

Dean snorts in either amusement or disgust, the sound promptly trailing off into another gagging cough which brings new tears to his eyes and once again shake him from head to toe.

"Shit," he grounds out when the new bout trails off a little, pressing the back of his hand against his lips as if trying to force his insides to stay where they belong.

Slowly, very slowly he starts relaxing a bit underneath Sam's hands. His muscles are still twitching and coiling yet his breathing seems to gradually slow back down to a somewhat normal level.

But when he tries to sit up his muscles betray him and he remains in his slumped position, eyes still squeezed shut in either exhaustion or humiliation, Sam cannot tell. Gently, he helps his brother to sit up a little straighter, slowly propping him against the tree. Swallowing hard, Dean roughly rubs a free hand over his face, trailing down over his mouth and chin. He's still shaking. And he probably wouldn't remain upright if Sam didn't have a solid grip on his shoulder still.

Sam helps Dean to disentangle and rearrange his feet from underneath him, careful to steer clear of the patch of spoiled earth where he just puked guts out. It's disconcerting that Dean doesn't even protest Sam's help, doesn't object to being manhandled and even wordlessly accepting the bottle of water Sam wrestles out of his duffel and actually unscrews for Dean before handing it over.

Dean finally does draw the line though as Sam tries to hold onto the bottle while his brother drinks. The glare Dean sends Sam is weak and ineffectual at best, but Sam decides to have pity on his brother and back off.

The silence between them stretches for minutes. Once the bottle is empty Dean leans his head back against the tree-trunk and closes his eyes, his throat working. The skin on his throat and neck and face is damp with sweat, a few thick drops rolling lazily down his temples before trailing abstract patterns across his scruffy cheeks and down his neck. He looks pale, despite the flushed cheeks and hectic spots of bright red that crowd the patch of skin covering the tip of his cheekbones.

Sam counts to ten in his mind, his eyes never leaving his brother's face. Then he clears his throat and goes for it.

"Talk to me, Dean." Sam urges, ducking down to catch his brother's eyes.

Dean cracks one eye open, his lips parting slightly as he runs the tip of his tongue over them, the corners of his mouth curling in disgust at the still prominent taste of puke he finds lingering there.

"You gotta tell me what's wrong," Sam tries again, his voice low and soothing but insistent, as if he's talking to a cornered animal.

Because Sam needs to know what's wrong, need to know when his brother is not up for a hunt – for any hunt. For stopping the apocalypse.

And Sam really is worried.

Dean seems to consider the question for a moment, drawing up his legs before swallowing heavily, dropping the right one gracelessly to the ground again. The arm wrapped around his belly tightens, fingers basically tearing into the fabric of his shirt as if he's able to hold the pain lingering there at bay, somehow.

When he speaks, his voice is terribly rough, a barely contained tremor cutting his words short.

"Guess last night's Chinese…didn't sit too well…"

Sam just stares at his brother, barely resisting the urge to clip Dean upside the head.

"Burger. We had Burger last night - for the past three nights in a row, as a matter of fact. And you, come to think of it, didn't eat more than a bite or two either time," Sam says, trying to get a rise out of his brother, hoping to avoid the almost inevitable play of truth or dare he knows will follow. Dean has never been one to give away information about his condition freely. And honestly? - Sam's sick of it.

"And it has nothing to do with you not sleeping properly, waking up screaming every night?" Sam taunts.

It's a low blow – he knows that, and he almost feels guilty as he see the flash of hurt in his brother's eyes, sees his chin snap back and down as if he's been slapped.

"Shouldn't have heard…those dreams were pretty private," he replies a second later though, raising his eyebrow in a poor imitation of his trademark smirk. "I'm not usually this loud, but that waitress in Tampa…she had this technique…"

Sam's ready to cut his brother off, slap him for his stupid, cheap attempt at diversion, when suddenly his brother's eyes go wide and he bites off whatever he was going to say.

A second later his hand shoots up towards his mouth, his eyes squeezing shut and before Sam can react Dean practically bends in half, retching up the little water he's managed to gulp down before.

"Jesus…"

He groans incoherently as tremors seize through his whole body, rattling bone and muscle.

When he's finally done bringing up the meager amount of water he just keeps dry heaving for endless seconds. As Sam keeps holding on to his brother, he feels anger boiling in his guts again. Anger at his brother – for not telling Sam there's something wrong with him, endangering himself – endangering Sam. What if this had been a real hunt – with real monsters?

For a second, there's Ruby's voice again, echoing hollowly inside Sam's head.

"_You're brother's not the same anymore, Sam. Not the man he used to be. He's not strong enough..."_

Shaking his head as if physically able to rid himself of the nagging yet strangely enticing voice, Sam lets out a breath, lips pinched tight and brows scrunched in what Dean would call his _bitch-face_. But he waits until his brother practically slumps in his arms before he explodes form anger and worry.

"You're telling me right the fuck now what's wrong, Dean, or so help me god… You got hurt during the hunt last night, falling down the stairs when we hunted the spirit? Are you bleeding? Internal injuries? Did you break something?"

He's careful but unrelentingly efficient as he props Dean up against the tree again, one hand on his shoulder partly to keep him in place and partly to just remain some kind of contact. His fingers are dangerously close to Dean's right shoulder, and for a second or two Sam gets distracted by the thought of the handprint scarring Dean's upper arm again. The urge to shift his grip and feel it, even through layers of clothes is almost overwhelming. But at the same time as the mark is beckoning him, it's also pushing him away. As if touching it would be like touching acid, would sear his palm and burn him irrevocably – like the good force – the _force of god_ which left the print would react to the blood coursing through Sam's veins, push it away like two wrong ends of a magnet.

He practically gasps, sucks in a breath and tears his eyes away. When he looks up, he finds Dean watching him from underneath hooded lids, an incredulous look in his eyes and Sam quickly schools his face and sets his jaw.

"'M fine, Sam. Just…"

"Yeah, just something you ate." Sam snaps.

When he removes his hand there's a damp spot on Dean's shirt, the heat of his body still clinging to Sam's palm.

"You're burning up, dude,"

"Didn't hurt myself," Dean mumbles, once again pressing the back of his hand pressed against his lips, his face ghostly white in the pale light of the moon.

"Yeah? Well, if this is what you look like when you're feeling fine nowadays…" Sam shoots back, exasperation making his voice sound unreasonably hard.

"It's nothing. Just…feel nauseous, is all,"

Sam scans his brother's feature for the lie he knows to be hidden there. But, try as he might, he isn't able to peek underneath his brother's walls quite as easily anymore. As if his view is blurred, obscured by…a veil. He used to be able to get Dean to give him something at least with just a furrow of his brows, a pout of his lips. He used to be able to play the little brother card so well, it was almost embarrassingly easy. Dean had never been able to deny him anything.

Until…

…until things happened. Until they both chose different paths where they should have clearly stayed on the same damn road all along.

Sam knows Dean is lying, but he can't do anything to make him admit to the truth, short of punching him, maybe, but even then Dean's more likely to choke on his own blood before giving anything away.

So – it's all about _not_ giving Dean much time to think about it.

Before Dean can voice his objections, Sam pries Dean's hand from his stomach, lifting the layers of his brother's shirt away from his body to peer underneath.

Dean hisses and spits out a weak protest, but he's either too weak or in too much pain to put up much of a fight.

His stomach and chest are free of any mark. There are no bruises, no cuts, no bloating and no gaping slashes or the clear impression of broken bones pressing against his skin from the inside. The only thing Sam can make out is an already healing scratch just underneath Dean's left pec, standing out in a soft, pinkish hue against his otherwise pale skin. But nothing to indicate internal bleeding, no sign of broken ribs.

Letting the shirt drop again Sam looks up to meet his brother's eye. Dean manages to look exasperated through the heavy cloak of exhaustion that surrounds him.

"Told you," he rasps before coughing into the crook of his elbow.

Sam doesn't miss the squint of discomfort that twists his brother's face, doesn't miss the way his hand remains protectively splayed against his midsection even as his posture slowly relaxes.

"Just…some sort of food poisoning. Like that time you ate those crabs at the Red Lobster," Dean scrunches his nose exaggeratedly. "Puked your…guts out for three days straight."

Sam knows what this is. He knows it's an attempt at diversion, and a bad one at that.

And still he kinda falls for it.

"Place was called the Blue Crab – we never had the money to eat at the Red Lobster," Sam mutters, can't believe he's giving in.

"Still puked your guts out," Dean rasps, eyebrow bouncing tiredly.

"And it was bad mussels, Dean. Dad dragged us into this cheap beach-side dump where they cooked the damn food on an open fireplace in the backyard, right next to the toilets," Sam scrunches his nose at the memory. "And fish-poisoning is nothing to take lightly, either. It could have ended badly,"

"Yeah, so maybe that's what I've got, too," Dean retorts, repeatedly rubbing his free hand over his brow as if to scratch an invisible itch there.

It's a nervous gesture Sam has seen his brother adopt whenever he's feeling off - or ill. Also, it's something Sam has detected in his father – a long, long time ago…

It's a bull-story, Sam knows it in his guts, knows it in his heart, too. They've both suffered their fair share of food-poisoning over the years – Sam's actually surprised they don't get sick more often, considering the cheap and questionably clean establishments they regularly eat in.

But, despite the fact that Dean really hasn't eaten anything that Sam hasn't eaten too, and despite knowing that Dean actually hasn't eaten much, period, in the past couple of days, Sam backs off. It's just easier than starting an argument again; their relationship is fragile enough as it is, and Sam's pretty sure it wouldn't survive another fight about something like this at the moment.

Maybe the dreams are only part of what's bothering Dean, maybe his brother _has_ caught some kind of bug, actually. They're not invincible, the thought that they simply get sick every once in a while shouldn't be too surprising. But it is. Fact is, they get injured more often than simply getting a cold, actually.

It's a dangerous life they are living, dangerous and fucked up in too many ways to count. But it's their life nonetheless. The only life they know.

"You feeling better now?" Sam finally ventures, carefully appraising Dean's reaction to the question.

He doesn't give away much, lids lowered, long, damp lashes almost brushing the dark circles underneath his eyes as he keeps his eyes carefully averted. He still holds himself rigidly, a forced casualty in the set of his shoulders, in his hands showing Sam his brother is far from alright. But he's making an effort – and he's not passing out from convulsions anymore.

"Yeah…much better. Like, all the shit's out of my system," Dean replies quietly.

Sam eyes his brother, takes in the way Dean _does_ look a little better now. There's a little more color in his cheeks and he's sweating a little less, the tremors died down to almost invisible shivers. His eyes are less glassy if still jittery.

For a moment Sam worries his bottom lip, trying to decide if he's willing to believe his brother, if he's taking the easy way out just letting Dean have his way here.

And before he knows it he's already trying to figure out a way to get Dean back to the motel and force him to rest so he can meet with Ruby later, squeeze in some extra-curricular training, now that they can't go chasing through the forest after an imaginary black dog all night.

Sam's still unsure if he should let it all go so carelessly, a little but annoyingly insistent piece of doubt nagging at him, prodding him with an icy finger. There used to be a time – pre-hell – when Sam would have been able to read his brother's much more easily. But lately his view is…obscured somehow.

And ever since coming back Dean has worked even harder on closing himself off. The occasional roadside-confessions have been rare, have given Sam the barest hint of an insight, maybe, while at the same time making his brother work even harder on building up those walls again right after.

"I got something on my face…or you just like staring at me?" Dean quips tiredly. "Because, you know…I'd be ready to get outta this goddamn forest, if you wouldn't mind giving me a hand here…"

Dean's voice cut through Sam's thoughts like a knife, quenching that kindling of irritation that has started to smolder in the pit of his stomach again. Irritation at his brother – as always, lately – for no reason at all. As if every word Dean breathes, every look he gives Sam – his mere presence - could ignite a raging wildfire. Sam doesn't know where it's coming from, and sometimes it's bad enough to make him start questioning his own sanity.

"What, you can't haul your own sorry butt off the ground anymore?" he asks.

Dean looks at him funny, as if he's trying to decide if Sam's serious or not.

Sam quirks his lips and gets up, a little belatedly softening his words with a smile, extending a hand. Dean takes it after only a moment's hesitation, closing his fingers around Sam's and letting his brother haul him to his feet.

Once standing it takes Dean a second to straighten but he dodges Sam's suspicious glance with a practiced smirk before setting off in a slow but determined pace. Sam waits exactly five seconds before bending down to retrieve their duffels and his weapon.

Manning the flashlight he points the beam at his brother's back. Dean's still walking, his slightly loping gait giving away nothing. Sighing Sam hefts the duffels over his shoulders, then starts follows his big brother back toward the car, consciously smoothing out the frown that's lingering on his face.

Another night ahead of them.

Sam can't help but wonder how they'll get through it this time.

OoOoOoO

tbc

_AN:_

_Alright, I know this story is, once again, very detailed...and a bit different maybe than what you're used from me. I hope I don't scare some of my readers away with it, but I needed to write it this way, for whatever reason. __I guess i needed to come to terms a little bit with what Sam went through during season 4 - and the way he saw Dean. I like describing someone through somebody else's eyes. In former seasons it would be about expressing the love and respect the brother's have for each other, which is exactly what makes this story now hard to write, because we all know that in season 4 Sam wasn't exactly himself - his view of his brother...obscured, somewhat. _

_I'm not sure if I can pull this off the way I want it to, but I hope you'll give me a chance and see this story through till the end. I hope you'll even come back for the next one, for starters :)_

_As always, I would love to hear what you think. I actually need some feedback to keep me writing without worrying myself sick. _

_thank you all so much for your time and patience - I hope the it was worth your time._

_Hope to see you again next week! Till then, take care._


	4. Chapter 4

_Thank you all so much for your patience. This site is apparently trying to mess with my head – first not letting me (and others) post new chaps at all, now messing with the alert-link. I'm so sorry for the confusion and the mutliple alerts for this chapter._

_Other than that, there's opnly two things to say - first, i still don't own them._

_Two - this chapter can be considered very...graphic. You've been warned. _

_If you think i'm insane - you're probably right. Sorry, if I somehow managed to deceive you so far. _

**Torn & Frayed**

**Chapter 4**

He's back on the rack.

The last thing he remembers, they'd cut him into so many tiny little pieces that there was nothing left of him. Nothing left to hang there except for the slabs of meat still dangling from the hooks, his dismembered hands and feet that were stuck in the rusty shackles. The rest of him was gone.

And still he's back. Again.

A sob presses up from deep inside his guts, pushing out from between parched lips. Dean doesn't even care to keep up the pretense anymore, doesn't care if he's humiliating himself with this sign of weakness. Besides, there are screams all around him, bouncing off invisible walls, pressing against the edges of Dean's sanity - drowning out everything else.

Nobody will hear him scream.

Nobody ever does.

He can't see a thing past the extended tips of his fingers and toes, but there are voices all around him, begging, moaning, screaming, pleading. And there are other voices, talking to him. Some taunt him, tease him, some assault and berate him.

Some tell him their life's stories.

Those are the worst - the lost souls, the demons he can't yet see but knows are drawing closer and closer until they get a chance to tear into him, still obscured by darkness, rip him apart until there's nothing left of him.

Sometimes Alistair comes by before they're done, sends them away.

But it's not to give Dean a break – reprieve. It's only to start torturing him in earnest – with sickening, blood-boiling method.

Dean can't tell which method of torture he prefers, which one's easier to endure. Because no matter how it turns out in the end, Dean's never the same after.

When the inevitable question comes – like clockwork at the end of every single day Dean's not much more than a quivering pile of flesh and bone – if that.

It's like there's a piece of him missing, every single time he's miraculously, cruelly resurrected again. And still he keeps waking up to yet another day of unimaginable pain and terror.

Every day Dean can't help but wonder how long there'll even be anything left of him – inside – to bring back.

And still he manages to say no.

Only to come and regret his decision again and again. And again.

He wants to be done with this - end it all, once and for all. But he knows he can't, because what Alastair is offering sounds too horrible to make him give in. Yet.

How much longer he'll be able to keep up the bravado, Dean doesn't know.

He's given up praying – he's never been the praying type to begin with. He's stopped calling out for Sam.

He's simply lost hope.

As the moans and screams around him intensify, Dean hangs his head and waits. Trying to tell himself that, as long as it's just the voices, the sounds…the smells, he can deal with it, Dean tries to see the upside of being left hanging here like some piece of leftover meat on a butcher's hook.

It's as good as it will get for him these days.

And the reprieve is way too short lived.

Hands reach for him out of nowhere, emerging from a billowing cloud of black smoke to materializing out of nowhere right in front of him. Dean has no means to escape, but he can't keep himself from jerking back as he sees long, disembodied fingers creep closer and closer toward his body, never swaying from their trail as they seemingly go straight for his vulnerable belly.

He can't help but buck in his bonds and drag in breath after sharp breath when fingernails as sharp as knifes star cutting through his skin and muscle to slowly, agonizingly sink deeper and ever deeper into his flesh.

At first, Dean can't even scream.

He sucks in breath after scorching breath, his muscles going taut as he bucks helplessly in his restraints like a sick, horrendous Halloween puppet strung up between the trees in the front yard of a haunted mansion.

The fingers dig deeper, cut, slice, probe, tear.

The way he's strung up he can't do anything in terms of protecting himself, can't bend forward, can't draw back and away. All he can do is endure it, trying to ignore their snickers and laughs and the sickening feeling of his own blood running down his body until it drips off his bare toes to disappear into the endless pit of nothingness below him. There has to be an ocean of blood – his blood – already down there.

And there's a lot more still to come.

Somehow Dean's head has come to hang back between his outstretched arms, muscles of his neck pulling taut as the pressure on them becomes too much. He can barely garner the strength to lift his head up, then drop it forward till his chin rests on his heaving, sweat-slicked chest. His eyes remain closed as he listens to his own sounds of unimaginable pain, hoarse groans bubbling up from his innermost core to tumble out from between cracked lips.

He can't scream anymore, probably never will, ever again. It's like there's too much pain for him to contemplate and his body can't come up with an appropriate way to express those feeling.

Somehow, he thinks, being able to scream would help. As if he could let it out, somehow, even though, of course it wouldn't do any good at all. But part of Dean's refusing to accept the truth, and he struggles, gurgles – moans, just to show them he's still there, still fighting.

A whole lifetime of suffering already behind him.

Another lifetime and then another and another still ahead.

The thought is almost enough to make Dean consider saying yes when Alistair comes to ask tonight.

But then he remembers - remembers why he's doing this, who he's doing this for.

Dean remembers that there's a reason, the best damn reason there ever was to go through all this. He saved his brother. Sam got to live, which is all that ever mattered. Sam has a right to live – is goddamn _meant _to live. He's a better person than Dean could ever be, and the world, most definitely, is a better place with him in it.

The thought, as usual, gives him a moment of resolve – of almost peace. The thought of his brother, alive and kicking, lets Dean deal with his destiny and helps him get through another hour or two of unimaginable pain and torture, lets him hold on just that little bit longer. As long as he concentrates on that – on why he is here…he thinks he might be able to make it.

But then he remembers that there's no way to _make_ _it_. There's no reprieve, no mercy here. There will be no break for him, no chance of improvement. He'll be stuck here forever, caught in a timeless, unalterable loop of terror, of pain beyond anything he's ever experienced. He'll never get out, never feel whole again. He'll never see his brother again – the only person who made everything bearable.

No way out.

The demonic finger keeps digging, another set of hungry hands joining in, a sharp claw slicing into his navel, drawing a lazy path of destruction down, curving toward his right side.

There are no tears, not anymore.

His voice is lost within burst of agonizing breathing, of desperate attempts to pull air into damaged lungs, the heat searing down his airways and burning everything in its wake.

Dean closes his eyes and tries to remember – to come up with a picture of his safe place – his brother. Anything to help him endure. But the pain wipes away every image he manages to conjure within the beat of a second. Too little time to hold on to it and tuck it away deep in his heart, the last vestige of his sanity, where no one – not even Alistair can find it and take it away from him again.

There's no concept of time, no way to determine how long it's going on. All Dean know is, it gets harder and harder each time, each and every day.

Today, he's close, so goddamn close to the edge, balancing on the tips of his toes already, a second away from to tumbling over.

And then it stops.

But there's no instant relief, he's too far gone for that. Even the brief absence of immediate pain tastes like ash – a false promise of peace.

Dean knows that it's not over. It'll never be over – and the hardest part of even this horrendous day is still before him.

When Alistair asks him _The _question Dean can't even nod or shake his head, let alone speak one single word.

He's done, torn to shreds and he has no idea how he's going to prevail yet another second, let alone another day. Or endless more to follow.

But Alistair is patient, waiting, admiring his handiwork and the handiwork of his obedient little demonic followers.

Dean tries to outwait his tormentor, but the pain in his abdomen is proving to be too much. He's by no means brave, has long ago given up on trying to keep up the appearance and play strong when it's more than obvious that he's the weakest individual ever to walk the earth – and Hell. He's not strong, nowhere near brave. Hell has taught him that, unmistakably, within the first day or two of his stay. And still there's a part of him, tiny and deeply hidden still, which refuses to show the whole range of terror and pain he's feeling in front of his tormentor.

Shivering from pain, bones rattling from shock and terror, Dean opens his eyes. His chin is still down so the first thing his eyes fall on are hands, countless hands – disembodied and emerging from coiling clouds of black some. The hands are buried inside Dean's belly, pulling and cutting and pushing and slicing, blood everywhere.

"What will it be, Dean?" Alistair taunts, a vicious smile coloring his voice, the sound alone making Dean straighten his spine unconsciously, his jaw jutting forward in fruitless defiance.

The word is perched on the tip of his tongue, balancing there like reluctant sky-diver who's about to be pushed out of a plane.

'_Say yes' _his mind taunts him, begs him, at the same time as something inside him screams _nononoNO._

He can't break. Not yet. He can't because he promised…he promised Sam he'd be alright, he'd be brave. He'd promised himself he wasn't going to turn into one of _them_.

Slowly, with great effort Dean lifts his head, his neck feeling as weak as cooked spaghetti, barely able to hold the weight of his skull. He looks up at Alistair through hooded eyes and heavy lids – the smug grin in the man's face just enough to give Dean that last tiny push – miniscule at best, but today it's enough to keep him from saying yes. Just enough to postpone it for another day. Only one more. He's held on for thirty years, he can handle another day. Even though the thought of having to endure it for even another minute is enough to make Dean moan in desperation.

The effort to keep his head up, his chin from dipping down again is overwhelming, but Dean wants to look Alistair in the eye when he tells him to go fuck himself. He needs to see that tiny, tiny glimmer of disbelief in the demon's eyes, right before the disbelief turns into grim resolution.

Because, clearly, Alistair knows it's just a matter of time.

Dean holds the demon's eyes, tries to summon up the strength and the courage to speak, when suddenly Alistair's eyes cut away to Dean's belly. At first Dean thinks he's just reveling in the destruction he sees there, the blood and gore, admiring his work. But then the bastard smiles – and it's a different kind of smile; one glowing with a kind of gloating satisfaction that would make Dean's guts clench if it still could.

Lowering his own gaze, Dean's terrified of what he'll see.

The sight that meets his eyes is gruesome – nauseating and terrifying and downright too terrible to be true. And still it takes Dean a few seconds until he realizes what has Alistair so blissed, so unnaturally emotional to see Dean suffer.

In place of the hands that have been clawing at him there is now only one. One single hand, blood-smeared and hungrily digging deeper and deeper.

It's like any other hand, and still Dean knows who this particular one belongs to without having to think about it. He'll recognize that hand anywhere, even in the deepest, darkest depths of hell.

When he looks up, eyes wide frantic, Alistair is gone. In his stead there's Sam.

Sam – distinguishable, visible – face and body. His face is blank, emotionless. And his eyes are pitch black.

This time, Dean screams.

He throws his whole weight against the chains that hold him, not caring that it's to no avail, that even if he does manage to free himself, he has nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. There's nothing but bottomless nothingness beneath his feet and all around him – even inside him. There's nothing but blackness in his heart.

If Sam is here…if he's really here, then it's all over. No use to keep on fighting. And still he can't keep his body from ripping at his bonds, screaming like he's never screamed in his whole life.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he hears Alistair laugh just as Sam's face twists into a terrible sneer – as if the sounds come out of his mouth – right before a thousand faceless voices join in to form a sick chorus.

But the only thing he really hears, running like a never-ending loop inside his head is: Sam's here. _Samsheresamsheresamshere_. In hell.

However they did it – however Alistair did it – but they got their hands on Sam.

He's become one of _them_.

_One of them._

Dean screams and rages until he's hoarse and spent, unable to utter more than rasping breaths or move one single muscle anymore. He finally manages to close his eyes, unable to bear the look of his little brother – down here – covered in blood. For minutes or hours Dean just hangs there, too afraid to open them again, shivering with terror and pain. He's waiting for Alistair to finally, finally have pity on him and come back, to send Sam away and ask Dean again.

Alistair, of course, is enjoying this way too much, probably gloats in the new torture he's subjecting his favorite toy to.

When hours pass and nothing happens, Dean finds his voice again, screams himself hoarse yelling for Alistair to come and ask him. Right. The .

Because Dean has an answer for him now.

When Dean finally doesn't feel his brother's presence anymore looks up.

Right there, where his brother had stood, is Alistair, as if he's always been there to begin with. There's a new gleam of satisfaction in his eyes, a smugness that beats every other expression before.

For the briefest beat of a second Dean has time to wonder if it's been the demon all along, if he's just made Dean see his little brother's image to further worsen the torture, but his thoughts are too mangled, his will too close to being broken to further explore his suspicion.

Dean's voice is all but gone, but there's something he's got to say still. He has one condition, one term to voice and then he'll agree to anything. Anything Alistair asks of him.

"You let Sam go," is all he can bring himself to say, and he mutters it over and over, in a voice so broken, it's painful to listen to. But it's important, so much more important than anything else he's ever said or done.

"I say yes…if you let my brother go,"

Alistair considers this, head cocked, lips curled. For endless minutes he just stares at Dean.

"Please…just…let Sam go," it's a sob, no more and no less, and Dean feels his insides churn as he opens himself up in front of his worst adversary.

But Alistair nods and Dean feels himself sag with true, heartfelt relief. Just like back then – when the crossroad's demon agreed to his terms, pressed her ice-cold lips against his.

"You one kind of a single-minded, self-sacrificing bastard," Alistair states quietly, his smile wavering for just a moment, the briefest, tiniest flicker of something that could pass as…recognition flittering across his features before he's back to being his old, disgusting self once more.

Dean knows it's all the reverence he'll ever get out of him.

Then the demon asks again – the same damn question he's asked Dean every godforsaken night for the past 30 years.

Only that this time, Dean says yes.

He says yes and while he's asked for it, has made the goddamn deal himself, after all, he feels the last bit of hope shatter into a million little pieces.

OoOoOoO

He wakes with a start.

His eyes snap open, his whole body strung tight and he sucks in a breath that never reaches his starving lungs but instead bounces uselessly around his windpipe until he thinks he can't take it anymore. For endless seconds Dean just lies there, eyes wide open and fixed on the ceiling, his hands flat against the mattress as if to tether him to the bed, to keep himself from falling back.

Back into Hell.

A scream is tightening his chest, pressing against his lips, begging to be released. But Dean won't let it – can't _let it_ - holds it inside with all the willpower he can muster.

The room is scorching hot, the temperature pressing against his body like a leaden weight, pinning him to the mattress and slipping into his pores, anchoring him to the spot.

Dean's eyes are open, but no matter how many times he blinks, no matter how much he tries to focus, the stained ceiling above his head won't settle its sickening motion, spinning around and around until he can feel bile rise in his throat and terror settle in his very being. There are images, swimming at the edge of his vision; hands reaching for him, beckoning him, black smoke billowing and coiling like a living thing.

But when he closes his eyes to fend them off, to wish them away, the images assaulting him are still there, same as before, never leaving him be. They are inside of him and all around him, a part of him. It feels so goddamn real, so real.

As if he never made it out…

"No," Dean gasps, the word below a whisper, only real inside his head. He can't imagine he'd be able to speak even if he tried to, his throat feels so raw, as if spiked with rusty nails, as if the unrelenting heat has sucked all the moisture from his body.

With great effort, Dean reaches up one of his hands, dragging it over the length of his body until he finds what he's searching for. He grabs for the cord around his neck, trembling fingers desperately trying to disentangle the twisted cord of rawhide, almost ripping it in his fevered desperation to tug it free. The material chafes the sweat-slicked skin of his neck, leaves behind angry red burns across his throat, but none of that matters right now. He keeps pulling with all his might until he finally finds _it_.

The horns of the amulet dig into the palm of his hands painfully, but Dean clamps his fist even more tightly until he can feel every groove, every line of the brass head against his skin, can conjure up the image of the amulet in his mind as clearly as if he was looking at it.

_This is real_.

He repeats it over and over in his head, still breathless from the terror haunting him in his dreams.

_This is real._

He_ is real. _

Feeling the familiar form of the amulet cradled in his hand is proof of that, I a soothing presence which settles his fraying nerves little by little.

The sound of his own heartbeat reverberating through his head, his own blood rushing through his ears is still deafening, but with every passing second, every blink of his eyes the darkness pulls back little by little until it is still there – always there - but kept at a safe distance at least.

Those hands - they are still waiting for him, lurking in the shadows to jump him the minute he's unaware, but for the moment Dean's back in control, can keep the darkness at bay.

Blinking his eyes furiously to rid them off the sleep and terror induced film of wetness Dean forces his breathing to calm down, willing himself to get a grip, goddamnit. He has to push past this, get ready to face reality again. The new reality that is, because save for a few frightening details his dreams are reality as well.

But he can't let that get the better of him now.

Slowly Dean opens the hand curled around the amulet, presses the flat of his palm against his sternum instead, trapping the cherished trinket underneath. He can feel his own heart beating rapidly against his ribcage, uses the reassuring staccato beat to ground him.

The t-shirt he's wearing is sticking to his hand, the sweat soaked fabric clinging to his chest as the oppressing heat filling the room sucks all the moisture out of Dean's body.

God, it's _scorching_ hot in here.

Swallowing heavily, Dean tries to wet parched lips with a tongue that feels at least two sizes too big for his mouth. His lashes are tangled and bunched together, making it hard to blink and there's the uncomfortable feeling of sweat running in lazy trails down his face, soaking the sheets underneath his head and pooling in the hollow at the base of his throat.

Why the hell did Sam turn up the heat like this?

_Sam…_

The thought of his brother settles in Dean's brain like a rock.

_Shit._

Again swallowing heavily, Dean keeps his eyes focused on the water stained ceiling, unwilling to face his brother. Yet. Because, sooner or later he has to, Dean knows that, knows it with painful clarity.

Struggling to school his features into stoic indifference, Dean hopes against hope that Sam hasn't heard, that he didn't wake from Dean's nightmare and remains oblivious to his big brother's breakdown.

If his nightmares have woken Sam, then there's no escaping the pregnant looks, the pinched lips and furrowed brows, the disappointment Dean keeps seeing in those way too familiar and still somehow…different hazel eyes. Even if Sam keeps silent about it, Dean can _feel_ his frustration, his disappointment at Dean's weakness.

It scares him, not knowing how much his little brother is aware of, how much of Dean's dreams is laid bare to Sam's ever watchful eyes. He can't be sure if Sam really grasps the true meaning of his nightly terror or if he just makes up his own story from the tiny bits and pieces Dean gave up in rare moments of unimaginable weakness, but both options are scary enough.

This loss of control…it frightens Dean more than he's willing to admit. His whole life has been about always being in control, always being on top of his game.

But not anymore.

It all turned around on him, backfired royally. His whole wonderfully thought-out plan – Dean coming back and returning to his brother's side, reclaiming his place as the big brother, as protector. Going back to normal – if only their kind of normal – but it was all the normal Dean had ever aimed for, had ever wanted.

Him and his brother. Fighting the good fight, side by side.

But, yeah – backfired. Painfully so. And to make matters worse Dean has broken his promise to himself and told Sam about his time in hell. Not only didn't it help their faltering relationship, but it actually managed to make everything so much worse even. Sam has taken Dean's revelations and throws them back in his face - Siren's spell or not - used Dean's heartfelt roadside confessions and turned them into something terrible and _wrong._

They've agreed on forgetting the things said under the Siren's spell.

But, to be honest, Dean actually meant some of the things he's said back then, even though he only ever realized it the moment the words left his mouth.

So it's a pretty safe bet that Sam meant what he's told Dean, too.

And now there is no turning back. No going back to the way things were _before._

They both know it, that much has become painfully obvious over the course of the past weeks. The way they keep looking at each other, start saying something only to bite it off at the last second…they both _know_ they meant what they said. And it's pretty obvious that by reassuring each other otherwise they don't make that fact any less true.

They've both drawn their conclusions from the debacle.

Dean, for his part, keeps things to himself once more, shutting his brother out where he clearly would need all the help he could get to keep his head above water. But he doesn't want to give Sam any more ammunition – any more reason to doubt Dean's strength. Dean doesn't think he can take any more hits to his self-confidence. Not right now. Not with this new kind of darkness he's fighting on a daily – and nightly basis now.

And Sam…well, Sam has changed so much, Dean doesn't even know _what_ he's dealing with anymore.

Closing his eyes, Dean tries to dig into the last resources of calm he's got stashed away somewhere deep inside, any little piece to help him get up and get through this new day as unscathed as he can.

But it's hard, so hard.

The images of hands reaching for him, of black smoke and piercing eyes keep haunting him even outside his dreams, flitting across the inside of his lids when he merely blinks.

They are so goddamn real.

Dean shudders, his muscles flexing involuntarily, his whole body going taut.

It feels weird - a myriad of goosebumps covering his skin, but the room is so goddamn hot, his skin stretched over his bones and muscles like a too small suit. With the simple act of breathing the air is scorching his throat on its way down his windpipe, coiling like flames inside his aching lungs.

God, why is it so hot?

Grasping a clear though is almost impossible - his head feels thick, stuffed to the brim, his joints aching as if he'd been actually hanging on those hooks, suspended above the deepest, darkest pit of doom.

But it's been a dream – only a dream.

Turning to is side, Dean finally gives up on trying to collect his bearings. He needs to get up, get out of his scorching hot hellhole of a room that reminds him so much of the real Hell – the heat, the burning, the screaming. He needs to get out of here for a minute, breathe fresh air again – away from the prying eyes of his brother. He needs some time alone – just a minute.

Some too short weeks ago Dean would have given anything to not be alone any longer than necessary, to have someone there – to have _Sam_ there to help him tune out the screams inside his head and keep his own private little army of demons at bay. But things have changed.

Turning his back toward his brother's bed Dean pushes himself up on one elbow, swinging his legs out of bed to make his way to the bathroom. He's not even semi-upright though, when suddenly a flash of pain slices through his abdomen, crashing him back down again.

A wet gasp of terror escapes his parched throat as he once again finds himself surrounded by agony, greedy fingers of unimaginable pain clawing at him, slipping into him, taking a hold of his very being.

The pain – the pain and horror of his nightmares – is like a living thing, alive and intelligent, thrumming through his body with a vicious beat.

"God…" he gasps, coughs as he twists his body sideways until he's half sitting, half lying on the bed again, his face smashes into the pillow, the scratchy, stale smelling fabric doing little to muffle his sobs of agony.

His whole body seizes, the heat turning up another notch, wrapping around his sanity like a smothering blanket.

The agony is blinding, suffocating, slithering inside him and burning him from the inside out.

The hands…those hands – disembodied and nameless – groping at his abs, tearing into him.

"It's over. Over…I'm out. I'm out. I'm out," Dean whispers desperately, trying to persuade himself that he's not stuck in Hell anymore, that the pain he's feeling is not real.

"I'm out," he practically sobs. "This is not _real._"

But it feels real, his abdomen rigid and locked tight with cramping spasms.

Dean's body is wound so tight, he can feel every breath vibrate through every single sinew, every muscle. And the pain won't recede, no matter how often Dean repeats the chant of _itsnotreal _inside his head. The scenes of hell keep swirling in a sickening merry-go-round inside his head, and slowly, Dean starts to panic.

As much as he doesn't want Sam to witness his breakdown, the need to have his brother there with him, helping him – pulling him out – suddenly is overwhelming.

In the throes of his pain Dean can't think past the need to not be alone, to be back with his brother…to have Sam there with him when he's hurting. Because, not matter how old and how independent and strong, he's only ever been _real_ when Sam was there with him. As if his brother is a part of him without which he can't exist, can't _be_.

"Sam," he rasps, his voice rough and barely audible, so he tries again, putting everything he has into this one word.

"SAM."

There's no answer.

Opening bleary eyes Dean rolls onto his back, sucking in a breath when his abdomen seizes once more. His legs tangled in his sweat-soaked sheets Dean rolls onto his other side, both arms clasped around his abdomen as if he's able to hold himself together.

Through the haze that is his vision, Dean can make out the other bed in the room, practically within reaching-distance.

It takes longer than it should, takes breathless seconds filled with pain and disbelief until he finally deciphers what his eyes see yet his brain is unwilling to accept.

The other bed is empty.

_Sam is not here._

The realization hits him, full force, feels like an actual punch in the guts.

Sam is gone.

He's gone and he's left Dean behind.

Blinking heavy droplets of sweat off his lashes Dean tries to make sense of it all, but his brain feels as if it's overheated and he can't come up with one clear thought for what feels like an eternity.

Sam's gone.

Gone where?

'_Ruby'_, is the first, distorted thought that flits through his brain, leaving a nasty taste of never quite disappearing suspicion behind on his palate. Because no matter how many times Sam promised he's stopped seeing her, doing…what he'd been doing…no matter how many times he swore he was done using his powers, there's always been an insistently nagging piece of doubt coiling inside Dean, telling him that his brother isn't being honest with him.

But Sam promised…he promised. He promised Dean and, god help him, but Dean wants to believe, with all his heart…

There's, of course, also another possibility - another explanation for Sam's absence, and Dean's not entirely sure which option would be the better one.

Because there's always the possibility that, finally, Sam has accepted that Dean is too weak, is a burden. He'll only slow him down. So he really just left.

"No," the force of Dean's denial is as weak as his body as he tries to pull himself up.

But even the smallest movement ignites another burning flash of pain in his stomach and Dean sucks in a sharp breath, pulls his leg closer to his body only to find that it doesn't help against the pressure building there, only makes things worse – so much worse. All too clearly he can feel the hands – fingers like talons …

Desperately, Dean searches the room around him, hoping to find something, anything, that proves him wrong. That Sam's still there – is in the bathroom – will come out any second and lay a hand on Dean's arm and pull him out of this sickening nightmare.

"Sam," he yells, really yells this time.

The sound of his voice booms through the room as it bounces off the cream colored walls to rush back at Dean with almost palpable force.

But Sam doesn't come – Dean remains lost in a vortex of dream and reality he can't fight his way out of.

And the pain persists, molten waves of white hot lava lapping over and through him, the demons' hands still roaming around in his belly, slicing and pulling and tearing him apart. Curling up into a ball on his side Dean tries to remain as motionless as possible. He coughs –a choked, gurgling sound that turns straight into a heaving gasp and a second later he throws up all over the dingy bed and rumpled sheets he's lying on. He doesn't even have the strength left to try and aim for the trashcan but simply heaves out whatever he's still got left in his stomach right where he's laying.

The smell immediately hitting his nostrils is bad – _terrifying_.

It smells like…Hell. One of the clearest memories of Hell Dean comes up with – every single night ever since he returned – is the smell. Next to the sounds and the goddamn pain it's what's ineradicably branded into his mind. Hell smelled like all the bodies Dean had ever dug up, all the blood he ever spilled. It smelled like every bone and every piece of rotten meat he'd ever burned.

And suddenly, irrevocably, Dean is back.

Back in Hell.

He realizes with a sudden, painful flash of clarity that he's never made his way out. It's all been a great, big lie. He never got touched by an angel, never dug his way out of his own grave through the wooden lid of a coffin and feet of dirt. He never walked miles to the next payphone to call Bobby, never hotwired a car to drive to his old friend's junkyard. He never found Sam, never hugged him, never talked to him, never saw his brother alive and well.

The past months of deemed safety, months of his life supposedly lived were in reality nothing but an illusion. He should have known - everything that happened – everything from Sam and Ruby to all those fucked up cases – god and angels and the goddamn Siren…

However Alistair managed it Dean doesn't know, can't even come close to imagine, the cruelty of it is too much to contemplate. But this…this kind of torture is the most effective one the master of torture as ever come up with. More effective than any physical torture, more effective than every verbal threat or promise he ever made.

Alistair made Dean think that he escaped, made him think he was saved – when in reality it was all a bad joke – his perceived reality a dream and the dreams he's been having gruesome reality instead – glimpses of happiness – or something very close to it – which his tired, overwhelmed brain came up with while all the while still being fried in the pit.

A beautiful, terrible lie.

And, just like that, everything suddenly makes sense.

The past months of…detachment, of feeling _wrong._ Everything has been wrong from the start, the estrangement and the distrust, the pain and fear and secrets.

Maybe Dean had _known_ all along, only he'd been too blind to see it – hadn't wanted to see. He'd clung to this false reality with a fervor that bordered on desperation.

He'd _needed_ this to be true…

But now hope is gone so quickly it leaves him dizzy and nauseous as Dean realizes that he's indeed alone.

Dean's thoughts are tumbling over each other like panicked visitors of a football game when the fire alarm starts blaring.

When he looks around, he's still in the Motel room, not back in the pit, but there's really not much of a difference. Alone in this room or strung up on hooks over a bottomless pit of agony, crying for his brother to find him, save him – the outcome is the same, in the end.

He's alone, Sam not here. And before long, the setting will once again change back to the fiery pits of Hell.

The heat is back already, a harbinger of doom soon to come – the fires of Hell reaching out toward him even when his mind still has him locked in this earthly motel room.

Back in Hell.

Has he ever said yes, then? Dean remembers Alistair asking him – again and again and again. And he remembers Sam…down there, tearing into Dean's belly – one of the hands torturing him. The memory triggers another bout of pain so intense, Dean is left breathless for a second, right before his stomach rebels once more and he dry-heaves for minutes without being able to stop.

Sam – in hell.

One of _them_. Once of the things Dean was supposed to save him from turning into.

The sight of his brother's eyes, as black and bottomless as Alistair's and Ruby's…

Everything Dean has been fighting for, everything is gone. Their Dad's warning reverberates through Dean's head like a never-ending echo.

"_You have to save your brother!"_

But he couldn't – he didn't.

And not only that, but Dean gave in – broke – said yes to Alistair's proposition.

Demons lie…Dean knows that. How could he ever believe that Alistair would be different, would offer Dean a way out? The bastard offered him salvation – offered to let Sam go, too - while in reality he'd only ever played another one of his sick mind-games with his favorite pet-project.

The sob that tears from Dean's throat cuts through the silence of the room like a knife, igniting a raging fire in his belly that flickers up and takes hold, starts eating him alive.

Before Dean knows what he's doing, he gets up.

He knows he stands no chance, that there's no way to run from this, but he's everything if not stubborn – and he won't give in to Alistair quite so easily anymore.

"Alistair," he yells – croaks, hungry tendrils of fire licking up his throat as he presses the word out of from between parched lips. "Alistair…goddamn show yourself,"

Once standing, he's still unable to straighten, folding in half as his right side explodes as if someone has stuck a grenade down his throat to ignite it in his belly.

Closing his eyes, Dean wills himself to remain standing for just another minute. Just another minute – and when he opens his eyes again, he'll be back. Back on the rack.

But when he finally does bring up the courage to pry open his heavy lids, he's still in the nameless room. Alone.

The heat, if at all possible, gets worse, cloaking him, attempting to bring him to his knees. But at the same time Dean feels his body shivering with inexplicable chills, coldness creeping through his veins to make their way into his heart, turning the muscle to ice.

He knows not that the past days of feeling unwell have simply a preparation of his slow but irrevocable descent back to Hell.

"Alistair," Dean cries again, the force of the yell bringing him to his knees.

He hits the ground hard, his knees cracking against the wooden frame of what is supposed to be his little brother's bed.

Catching himself with one hand, fingers digging into the soiled carpet, Dean digs into the last reserves he's got left. His voice is all but gone, consumed by the heat raging through his body. Dean knows that Alistair will come. He will come and take Dean – it's only a matter of time.

But Dean won't just let go of this life he's fought so hard for, even if it didn't turn out to be perfect in the end.

Fighting the unimaginable pain boiling through his insides, Dean waits, holding on to consciousness as his body tries with all its might to fail him, to pull him into the deepest, darkest pits of blackness, beckoning him with greedy fingers. But he can't give in now.

Now that he knows Alistair's game, he can't risk loosing consciousness, because he just knows that, once he wakes up again, he'll still be stuck in this Hell on Earth where he thinks he's save but in reality is caught even more tightly in Alistair's net of lies and deceit.

But he won't make it this easy on the bastard. If Alistair wants Dean back, he can damn well come and _get _him.

Shivering, the arm holding him up trembling from holding his own weight Dean waits for Alistair to come and end this, once and for all.

Maybe it's only minutes, maybe hours, but as Dean kneels there, sweat dripping off his chin and lashes to soak into the dirty blue carpet, he feels his resolve wavering, his walls cracking.

Maybe putting up a fight is not what will get him anywhere. It won't get him fucking _anywhere._

Dean's sick of this – sick and so, so tired.

If Sam is not here – with him, right this moment, not even in his made up reality…what the hell is he even fighting for? Why pretend?

Why pretend he even cares anymore?

"Alistair," he first whispers to himself, then screams the word into the room at the top of his fluttering lungs.

The effort it takes to simply talk, let alone scream is enough to make his arms give way and he crashes shoulder-first against the bed – _Sam's bed_. Grabbing a fistful of the bed's comforter Dean tries to pull himself up onto the mattress but finds his arms shaking too badly to haul his battered body up even an inch.

He blinks – merely blinks, but the next second he finds himself on the floor, face pressed into the carpet right next to a puddle of what probably is his own puke, his body a thrumming, aching heap of useless bone and muscle.

His stomach is on fire.

"_Dean,"_

The voice penetrates the fog clouding his brain like a bullet and he snaps his eyes open, almost crashing down when a surge of vertigo rushes him with full force. Desperately scanning the room for the owner of the voice it takes Dean a second or two before he realizes that he's indeed not alone anymore.

But it's not Alistair who answered Dean's calls.

Right there in front of him is Sam.

Or…demon-Sam, even though Dean can't really bring himself to think of his brother in those terms.

For endless seconds Dean just stares at the form of his brother – the shell – because clearly it's nothing else. Down here, they all are. Even Dean himself – which is why he'd felt so goddamn empty during his last months in deemed safety.

Sam stares back at him and Dean can't really see his brother's eyes in the darkness but surely they are black, deep and bottomless – emotionless. And his hand is hovering just inches away from Dean's face.

Terrified, Dean flinches back.

Too clear is the memory of the blood he's seen on his brother's hands.

He tries to shuffle away, get his feet under him and run, but he doesn't get far. His back collides with something hard – one of the beds – effectively stopping his escape.

"No," he gasps, truly terrified now. At the moment his hands and feet are still free, he's not been strung back up on the rack – or the horrific meat-hooks. He's still in the room, some kind of way station between this dream-world and Hell. But somehow he knows that, with one touch, he'll be back there.

Almost immediately, Sam jerks back too and Dean sees something shift in his brother's eyes.

"You…not you…" Dean shakes his head as if his denial can dispel the image in front of him.

But Sam – the demon – stays right where he is.

"Hey…hey, Dean. It's me. Sam, just… You gotta snap out of it,"

Once again Sam starts reaching out, once again Dean snaps back. He can feel the breaths rattling inside his chest as the panic increases, paralyzes him. He can't let Sam touch him. He can't…Sam shouldn't be here. Not in the first place, certainly not anymore.

Dean made another _fucking deal_…

Squeezing his eyes shut Dean keeps up the repetitive shaking of his head, unable to stop his body from trembling.

"No…you can't…you can't be here. Not here. I saved you…"

Sam holds his hands up, palms forward and once again Dean can feel dread turn into blood-curdling panic as he recognizes the gesture from what he's seen his brother do…back then in that restaurant – exorcising a demon with is mind.

"Dean, no...It's me. I'm here, right here," demon-Sam coos, but the words sound wrong, so wrong.

Sure, the voice sounds just like Sam – Sammy - the real one, but Dean knows it can't be…

Dean wants to fight; he wants to rant and scream and beg – wants to run. He wants to find Alistair and _demand_ that the bastard keep his side of the bargain and let Sam go again.

"You promised," he whispers, addressing the dark corners of his vision, the corners of the room where black clouds seem to hover and wait for their time to attack.

His body is wound so tightly, Dean can feel the tension humming through him like a living thing, practically paralyzing him. Then, suddenly, all his muscles seem to turn to jelly within the beat of a second. As he slumps, unable to break his fall Dean is dimply aware of Sam reaching out, but he's not quick enough to catch him. But he somehow manages to at least soften the impact as he somehow, awkwardly grabs hold of Dean's head, preventing it from colliding with the floor full force.

Sam's hands feel so…cool against his burning skin, the touch almost soothing, if it didn't feel so wrong at the same time.

But as Sam's other hand reaches for Dean's chest the contact ignites a firework of blinding pain in Dean's belly once more and before he can do anything, say anything he is heaving again, his body convulsing. He retches and retches until tears of pain and exhaustion flow almost freely down his face and still Sam won't let go, keeps holding him in his vice-like grip.

As if he wants to end Dean – once and for all.

"No...let go of me…let go. Already said…yes…" Dean pants, unable to offer much more in terms of resistance.

And it's useless, he realizes. No matter how much he'd like to believe otherwise, apparently the terms of deal-making don't apply here in the pit. Demons lie – and in Hell they are not bound to their word, can do whatever the fuck they want.

Alistair won't let Sam go – same as he'll never let Dean off that rack. It doesn't matter how many times Dean will say yes…he's doomed to suffer – by the hands of Alistair or his little brother – forever.

When the darkness finally comes to claim him, there's no relief in the however small reprieve he's been granted in the seconds before he opens his eyes again.

All Dean can think about is the fact that it'll all start over again. And now that Sam is down here, too he doesn't have anything left to hold on to. His safe place – the knowledge of having saved his little brother - has been destroyed.

Now how in god's name is he supposed to prevail?

OoOoOoO

TBC

_AN:_

_I honestly don't know where this came from. I'm not actually nervous about posting this chapter, I am downright TERRIFIED. _

_I not going to ask you to be nice. Gotta go and find a place to hide and hope you'll forgive me..._

_OOO_


	5. Chapter 5

_I can't tell you how much I am in your debt. You're all so very nice to me, it's hard to believe I deserve all this. _

_Last weeks chapter had me on edge, really, and while I know that it was mighty intense I'm even more thankful for all your nice words and supportive reviews and Pms._

_I'm so terribly sorry I didn't answer back to you yet. But each and every one of them is very special to me, I hope you know that by now. I will get to answering them all, I swear! Till then, I hope you'll find the time to read this next installment._

**Torn and Frayed**

**Chapter 5**

He kills the headlights as he pulls around the corner into the abandoned parking lot.

Wincing at how close to the motel-room door he already is Sam quickly shuts off the lmpala's rumbling engine, lets the car roll into the designated parking spot in front of room number 7 before stepping on the brake.

The sudden lack of engine noise is deafening, the car's interior suddenly way too quiet.

The parking lot is abandoned, not a single car anywhere. It doesn't really speak for the motel that it's abandoned like this, even though it's pretty close to the big highway bypassing this town, but that's probably one of the main reasons they've chosen to stay here of all places, Sam muses.

Dirt and discomfort versus privacy and a bargain. Story of their lives.

Looking around Sam sees that all the rooms are dark, and despite the late – or early hour, there's usually always someone awake, always some window illuminated to indicate another lonely soul who can't seem to find any sleep that night. But not here – not tonight.

For a moment, Sam feels very alone.

For a moment he stays behind the Impala's wheel, staring at the door of the room that holds the only family he has still left. The only person he is supposed to be able to trust – the one person he's tried to get back for four fucking months. Four months of unimaginable heartache and suffering, of brokenly uttered promises that he will do everything – _everything_ – to get his brother back.

And now that he has him back he's suddenly trying to get away from him every single chance he gets.

His hands are shaking, Sam realizes, or rather thrumming with un-harvested energy. He consciously tightens his fingers around the steering wheel before forces each of them to let go – one by one - forces them pull the key from the ignition, forces them to drop into his lap and not rub and scrub over his face and through his hair.

He's jumpy, nervous – dissatisfied.

The night certainly didn't go as planned.

First the hunt that turned out not to be a hunt at all, then Dean suffering another one of his breakdowns connected to his time in the pit - even though of course he didn't admit to it - and then, finally, Ruby telling Sam to meet him somewhere only to never show up in the end.

An utter waste of time – all of it. From stalking a fictitious black dog to hoping to be let in on his brother's fears – to training and…having a little fun, maybe, with Ruby.

All of it a freaking waste.

And what makes it worse is the fact that Sam can't go in the room now and share his thoughts with his brother. He can't just waltz in there and complain about his shitty day and how it all sucks to hell and how he feels all his nerves tingle from the need to get a boost of energy he so desperately craves – almost like an orgasm – that surge of high he always gets when he sends some demon back where he came from.

Here he is, carrying around all this weight on his shoulders – this tremendous responsibility - and there's nobody to share it with.

Ruby…well, he _could _talk to her, of course, but their relationship isn't exactly a vocal one. And the one person that always used to listen to everything Sam had to say, be it important or not, apparently isn't capable of handling the truth right now.

So, Sam's on his own here. It's not the first time, probably won't be the last either. Still doesn't mean that it has to feel good…

So here he is, back to pretending.

With a heavy sigh Sam folds himself out of the car, careful to close the creaking driver's door as quietly as possibly. In a surge of irritation he thinks that, most definitely, Dean is not oiling the damn hinges just so he can keep track of when Sam's taking the car, so he can hear when he comes back.

It's unreasonable, of course, Sam knows that the second the though has formed in his mind, but for a beat of a second there it all seemed so wonderfully plausible.

"_She's an old girl,"_ Dean keeps telling Sam. _"I keep good care of her, but you can't exactly blame her joints for getting a bit rusty, seeing how she has to haul your giant ass around all the time…"_

Sam can't help but snort at the instant memory of his brother's teasing banter, feels a sharp pang somewhere in the depths of his chest when he realizes how rare those times of lighthearted, no-offense-taken pestering of each other have become.

Making sure that the Impala's door is locked securely Sam walks toward room number 7, suspiciously eyeing the only window right next to the door. Still no light on inside. Good.

Squaring his shoulders, Sam eases the key into the lock.

Just as he's about to open the door, though, a faint thud – the sound of something hitting the floor emerges from the room and Sam freezes.

Immediately, the hair on the back of his neck rise like the hackles of a rabid dog.

_Dean's awake._

The thought is enough to make Sam's heart skip a beat, enough to make all the muscles in his body clench painfully. Enough to send his mind into overdrive.

_Dean's awake._

Which means he knows Sam's been gone, knows he's taken the Impala, knows Sam has been _lying_…

For a crazy second Sam contemplates to just make a run for it – to leave the room key dangling in the lock and turn around, take the Impala and get the hell out of dodge. He could look for Ruby, hook up with her – send his brother a text message with the coordinates of where he left the car and that will be it.

No more keeping secrets, no more living next to each other, yet worlds apart.

"_Alistair,"_

It takes Sam almost a full second to recognize the voice, hoarse and choked off and filled with such pain and…fear, it's hard to connect it to Dean.

But it _is_ Dean, there's no doubt about it.

Then it takes him yet another second to comprehend the word his brother has been yelling.

_Alistair._

The name sends a shiver of ice cold hatred straight into Sam's heart.

Without hesitation, the key forgotten in the lock, Sam slams shoulder first into the door, splintering lock and doorframe as the old, not so sturdy wood gives way without any resistance. Stumbling to a stop just inside the shattered doorframe Sam keeps his eyes open, the darkness inside almost complete so he has trouble making out anything but very faint outlines of chunky pieces of furniture.

From the desperation he heard in his brother's voice Sam expected to be walking in on a fight – or at least an impending one – expected to see both his brother facing off with the demon Dean admitted to knowing from his time in hell, but at first sight the room is not only dark and quiet, it's also…empty.

Energy buzzing through his head, Sam stands stock-still, taking a precious second to scan the darkness in front of him.

The salt-line that's been guarding the front door when Sam left has been disturbed, but it looks like Sam was the one breaking it, scattered crystals of pure white lying scattered around the outlines of Sam's well worn sneakers. He only realizes that he hasn't even grabbed his weapon upon entering when he hears his knuckles crack under the pressure of his clenched fists.

_Goddamnit. _

But a weapon against a demon would be useless, Sam argues with himself as blood continues to rush in a sickening crescendo in his ears.

The good thing about cheep motel rooms is, they hardly are very big – which makes it so very easy to scan the room in mere seconds – and find it empty.

At first, Sam's relieved. So it's been one of Dean's dreams again – a terrible one, no doubt, judging from the force of Dean's shout, the unusual violence with which he woke from his otherwise soundless nightmares – but a dream nonetheless.

Because there's most definitely nobody here – certainly not Alistair.

No one here but Sam.

Not even…

It hits Sam like a sledgehammer, his eyes immediately cutting back to the two beds on the other end of the room.

They are both empty.

And it doesn't make one shred of sense.

For a frightening moment Sam thinks he's imagining things, that his brother never called out at all – that Dean isn't even here to begin with.

Maybe…maybe it's withdrawal setting in, then…even though it's been barely two nights since he's last seen Ruby. And he has taken a sip earlier, too - when Ruby didn't show and Sam had been left to face his inability to do anything without the snarky, sexy as hell demon who seems to having a lot more power over him than she rightfully should have.

The flask…Sam's thoughts irrevocably turn toward the flask he carries around in the inner breast pocket of his jacket, his brain short-circuiting with the temptation, the promise of power.

But then, barely a heartbeat later, Sam is pulled back into the present again, pulled back with such force he almost sways on his feet.

_Something's wrong. _

He can taste it in the air – can _smell _it.

Taking yet another moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, Sam scans the room once more.

He has to find his brother.

With the condition Dean has been in lately, there's no knowing what his brother has done when waking up and finding Sam gone. Dean has been so dangerously close to snapping before, Sam can only imagine…

Fighting the urge to call out his brother's name, Sam forces his body and mind into hunting-mode, concentrates all his senses on the sense of _wrong_ that thickens the air.

His eyes on the bathroom door across the room, Sam takes a tentative step forward when, out of the corner of his eyes he sees something sticking out from the narrow space between the two beds.

Jerking to a stop, Sam whirls around.

A hand.

The sense of dread pushes a surge of bile to Sam's throat.

Not just any hand.

It's Dean's hand.

No matter how much they've grown apart lately, there's no way Sam does _not _recognize the silver ring he noticed on his brother's hand for the first time when they reunited back at Stanford that night and Dean has never been without since.

"Dean…no,"

Reaching Dean's side with two long strides Sam pushes himself into the crammed space next to him, twists and maneuvers his body until he's on his knees next to his fallen brother. Worried hands are hovering inches above Dean's skin, unsure where to start. From past experiences Sam knows how wrong things can go when he touches his brother – wakes him too early.

But this, certainly, is nothing like any past experience they ever had.

Dean's lying on his side in the way too narrow gap between the two twin beds, one arm wrapped protectively across his belly, legs drawn up to trap the limb there in a very uncharacteristic display of vulnerability. His face is turned and practically squished into the mangy carpet, one hand fisted into the threadbare fabric of the partly pulled down comforter from one of the beds. The fact that he's lying way too still, twisted in a way that just has to be uncomfortable, there's no doubt that Dean didn't just fall asleep on the floor.

"Dean,"

There's no sign of any visible injuries, no blood at least. But there's a large puddle of puke staining the carpet right next to Dean's face, the smell hitting Sam's nostrils hard as he leans closer toward his brother.

"Jesus…"

The first touch is electric, Sam's fingers tingling almost as he touches the almost inhumanly hot skin of his brother's forehead. Carefully turning Dean's head Sam searches his brother's features for any sign of what's wrong with him as if, now that he's actually unconscious, he'll maybe let Sam in on his secrets.

Dean's face is pale and slick with sweat and even though the room is pretty dark Sam can make out bright red blushes accentuating his brother's cheekbones.

"What the hell…Dean? What the hell's wrong with you?"

There's a pulse, albeit a weak and thready, but nevertheless beating against the tips of Sam's fingers as he presses them against Dean's throat.

_Not good…Jesus. But he's alive. Still alive._

Sam can't restrain the relived sob that pushes out from between tightly set lips as he feels his fingertips tremble a bit against Dean's fever-flushed skin.

"Time to wake up, dude," he whispers, applying gentle pressure to Dean's shoulder. "Come on, Dean,"

When a light but decisive slap on the cheek fails to rouse his brother Sam continues to run his hand from Dean's face over his skull, for once thankful for the close-cropped hair since it makes it so much easier for him to feel any kinds of bumps or broken skin there. But there's nothing, nothing to explain this – no cracked skull, no lumps or dents or anything else suggesting a concussion that could knock Dean out like this.

The frown bisecting Sam's brow deepens.

"Dude, hey. Time to wake up now,"

This time the slap is a little harder, Dean's head lolling in Sam's cradling hand, but still he doesn't wake up.

"Come on_, Dean_,"

Sam applies pressure to Dean's knees, attempting to fold them down so he can somehow get his brother into a better position for Sam to check him out more properly.

This, at least, get's a reaction out of Dean.

The sudden cry escaping his lips is deep and guttural, primal in its intensity. With sudden, unexpected strength he pushes away from Sam's touch, pulling his head out of Sam's palm to once again bury his face in the mangy carpet. But before Sam can say anything, can reestablish his hold or do anything else to pull his brother out of his apparent misery, Dean goes rigid.

His whole body tightens so suddenly, Sam jerks his hands away in surprise at the sudden tension that hardens every one of his brother's muscles, pulling him taut like a bowstring. Another cry of pain is cut off yet his mouth opens, lips forming unheard sounds of agony as his body is robbed of all means to express itself.

Then, Dean's eyes shoot open, confused, glassy orbs of green wildly roaming the room before getting stuck at Sam's face, staring at him for some endless, breathless seconds.

"Hey," Sam croaks, surprised by the emotion running wild inside his own heart at the open vulnerability he sees in his brother's gaze.

Dean's face is frozen in an expression of shocked disbelief and Sam thinks he can't take this, wants his brother to look away, to get a grip on himself again. Because this…

"Dean, hey. You with me dude? What happened?" Sam isn't even sure Dean heard, his gaze never wavering away from his face, locked in some kind of paralysis. Sam feels his unease grow.

Reaching forward Sam attempts to reestablish physical contact again, knowing that Dean, albeit always going on about personal space and touchy-feely little brother really just craves this just as much as Sam does.

But as his hand descends toward his brother's shoulder, Dean's eyes suddenly widen. A second later he sucks in a breath so deep, it's as if he's been close to suffocating. As if he hasn't drawn a decent breath in ages.

Forcing himself to wait, Sam stops his hand just inches from making contact, intent on giving his brother time to get a grip once more, to relax into the situation.

Dean's always been most vulnerable after waking up from one of his nightmares and it always, always takes him a while to get his shit together again. Sam doesn't know what his brother sees in those endless seconds after waking, doesn't know much about the images assaulting his brother's dreams and sometimes even waking hours – but he does know that they have to be terrible to lay his brother bare like they do.

Any second now, though…any second Dean will recognize Sam. He'll realize he's safe and pull himself together again, slam those walls down and secure them in place once more.

And then, as soon as Dean has himself back under control once more, they'll have some serious talking to do – Sam will make sure of it. He'll make his brother talk, if he wants to or not. Because there's still something terribly wrong. There is no way Dean will be able to explain this away anymore – the puking and the fever and passing out on the floor.

No way.

But as Sam watches his brother carefully he is confused to not see them fill with the relief Sam hoped to find there. There's no recognition, no moment of clarity – nothing but complete, utter pain and confusion. And terror.

Instead of slumping back down, instead of closing his eyes for a moment to school his features back into a mask of indifferent stoicism, Dean gasps. It's a horrified, pain-filled groan that seems to tear out of his innermost core and he jerks up and away, the movement impulsive and agitated, fuelled by what exactly Sam has no clue.

But Dean's body seems to be on some kind of lockdown, the usually controlled fluidity of his movements frighteningly absent as he flails to push himself up with onto shaking arms only to tumble back down again the next instant. His back hits the bed frame behind him, stopping his escape and still Dean pushes back, his whole body practically trembling as he stares as Sam with eyes awash with horror and naked _terror_.

"No,"

Sam jerks his hands away as if burned; shocked to the core by his brother's reaction, unable to contemplate what Dean must be seeing if his reaction is this primal, this raw.

Sam feels…gutted, almost and still he's unable to look away, mesmerized by his brother's eyes.

"You…not you…" it's the only thing, the same three words, uttered by pale lips, over and over again.

Sam doesn't think he'll ever be able to forget those words coming out of his brother's mouth, nor that tone of voice, the utter despair – the screaming desperation that bleeds out of those three words, repeated like a sobbing mantra.

"Hey…hey, Dean. It's me. Sam, just… You gotta snap out of it," Sam presses out, finds his own voice trembling slightly in reaction to his brother's misery.

Dean's head jerk, lips parched and eyes wide.

"No…you can't…you can't be here. Not here. I saved you…"

The words hit hard but Sam tries to not let it show as he slowly extends his hands to hold them up, palms forward. But the placating gesture only seems to agitate Dean even more. He pales visibly, breath stuttering out of him in an almost whimper as he presses his back even harder against the bed frame behind him.

Like a cornered animal.

That look…Sam remembers seeing it in his brother's eyes when he wakes up from one of his nightmares – the one he pretends to not have. But the look never stays this long, never takes over Dean's whole face, his whole being. Not like this.

This is so terribly wrong…

"Dean, no...It's me. I'm here, right here,"

At that, finally Dean stills. The sudden silence in the room feels like a bolt of thunder. For seconds he does nothing but stare at Sam but just as Sam starts to feel uncomfortable underneath his brother's stripping gaze, Dean's eyes start drifting off, off to the side to latch onto something else there. Sam can't help but turn his head, trying to see what his brother is looking at, but there's nothing. Just dusky corners and nothing else.

"You promised," he whispers so quietly, Sam's not sure he heard right and yet the words couldn't have hit him harder, more squarely and straight in the gut if Dean would have screamed them in his face.

Sam freezes, mind going blank for a second before it starts working in overdrive, thoughts tumbling over each other as if on a wild dash for the emergency exit.

'_Dean knows.'_

It's the only conscious thought, the only thought loud enough to be heard at the moment.

And for the first time in weeks, Sam feels really, truly guilty. Maybe it's because he didn't meet up with Ruby tonight, didn't get to 'train' with her and therefore doesn't feel the justness of his actions as strongly as he usually does. Or maybe it's simply the way Dean says it – in the throws of his nightmare and pain – the deep, heartfelt sincerity with which he delivers those two, simple words.

All Sam knows is, he feels gutted – and it hurts more than he thought possible.

He's struggling to come up with something to say – an excuse or a justification – when suddenly Dean slumps forward.

There's one single tremor, like a tidal wave crawling up from his toes to the top of his head.

He goes still again for the beat of the second before his body practically seizes, a retching cough erupting from his throat as he curls forward and dry heaves so hard there are tears streaming from his eyes, muscles and tendons standing out sharply against the sweat-slicked skin of his neck.

The onslaught of retching coughs is so violent, Sam's afraid his brother's body will break under them. But even now, even barely conscious and retching his insides out, Dean jerks in surprise as Sam takes a hold of his shoulders to keep him from face planting into his own puke.

"No more...let go of me…already said…yes…" he pants out between bursts of heaving breaths.

For the beat of a second Sam almost lets go. But, of course, he doesn't. He can't, because no matter what is wrong between them at the moment, no matter what needs to be said and done – the one thing Sam can't ever do is let go of his brother when he really needs him. Not even Ruby and all the damn demon blood in the whole wide world will ever be able to change that.

There's not much to bring up, apparently, only strings of bile and spit staining the already rotten carpet, and still Dean can't seem to stop retching, his body convulsing as he's trembling with pain and exhaustion. The sounds emanating from his throat, deep and _raw_, are the worst Sam has heard in his whole life. Almost as bad as back when the hellhounds tore him apart right before

Sam's eyes…

No matter how you turn it, this is _wrong._

Even if it's PTSD – Dean reliving Hell – there's no way this is going to end well. No fucking way can he go on like this – physically or mentally - and ever be the same again after. And it's definitely _not_ just in Dean's head. It can't be, and if the days of no eating and the puking and the soaring fever aren't proof enough Sam doesn't know what is.

For days or weeks or even months Dean has been holding on by no more than a thread.

And from the look of it, that thread's just torn under the constant strain.

The limited space between the beds makes it hard for Dean to truly fight back as Sam gently but decisively pulls him onto his lap, levering him sideways and holding on to his forehead as he keeps retching and trembling in his arms.

He wants nothing more than to hold on like this forever, never let his brother go again, but Sam knows he has to call an ambulance, right now, before he does anything else.

It takes some smart maneuvering and twisting until he can reach one hand into the back pocket of his jeans without letting go of his brother. Dean's weak yet insistent attempts to fight Sam's hold keep hindering his movements, but finally Sam manages to pull the phone free and punch in the emergency number before wedging the phone between shoulder and ear.

Between his brother's broken mumblings of _no_ and _stop_ and _youpromised_ Sam snaps at a slightly overwhelmed operator to send them an ambulance – NOW. He offers little more in terms of an explanation other than that his brother is very sick and he needs a hospital '_right the fuck now'_ before disconnecting the call and dropping the phone carelessly to the floor.

There's so much more he should do.

Sam knows he should get up, pull his brother back onto the bed, cover him with all the blankets he can find. He should get up and make sure their weapons-bag is hidden underneath the bed instead of lying pretty much in the open next to the bed – that Dean's knife does not peek out from underneath his pillow.

He should make sure he has a decent cover story ready when the ambulance gets here – fake names to match their fake IDs and insurance cards, should make sure he's got all their stuff together so he can up and leave as soon as they wheel his brother out of here.

But he can't do any of those things.

There's this part of him – a part that has been missing, somehow over the course of the past weeks or even months, a part that tells him that he can't let go of his brother, not now. If he lets go now, Dean will slip out of his grasp once and for all and Sam will fall again. He'll fall into that terrible void he'd fallen into when he'd buried his brother in a wooden box in the middle of nowhere, vowing he'd get him back while secretly knowing that it would be a promise he wouldn't be able to keep.

Yet another promise…one of many he's made, Sam realizes.

When Dean finally succumbs to unconsciousness, Sam's almost ready to carry his brother to the nearest hospital himself.

Fighting down a tremor of dread shaking his own body, Sam reaches behind him and pulls the comforter off his bed, drapes it over Dean's prone form.

Now…now would be the time to get ready, turn on the lights and open the door, wait for the ambulance to arrive.

But he doesn't move until he hears the approach of siren's in the distance, doesn't get up until the paramedics practically _make him_.

He can barely speak as they ask him about his brother's symptoms, make Sam relay everything he can remember about his brother's condition the previous days.

Dean doesn't wake as they do their preliminary examination, doesn't move a muscle when they strap him onto a stretcher and load him onto the ambulance waiting just outside the door.

And after trying once – only once to make Sam leave his brother's side and get into his own car to follow them instead of riding in the ambulance with them – they give up trying.

Sam would have hated to hurt them.

But he would have if it had really come down to it.

OoOoOoO

So, Dean is sick.

Very sick…terribly sick. The looks the paramedics have shot Sam were accusatory at best as Sam relayed his brother's symptoms to them, got downright disbelieving as Sam dished out more and more details, surprising himself at how many little things he'd successfully overlooked over the past days.

Now that he's thinking about it, it _has_ been pretty damn obvious something was wrong with Dean.

And Sam feels like a freaking idiot, an ignorant - and the worst brother in the world for ignoring Dean's obvious distress.

Maybe it's because he's been too focused on other things – other vital things, lately. Dean did his best to push him away, and Sam was only too happy to let his brother have his way for once. Sam didn't want to see his brother's pain only so he himself didn't have to feel anything.

But with everything that happened – starting with Dean going to hell, the selfish bastard – the four months after that and then the months since he's come back… All that is Dean's fault to begin with. Nobody's fault but Dean's.

And Dean is just so intent on playing the strong, the indestructible - even though it's as clear as anything that he isn't. Not anymore. Even Dean has to be able to see this.

But even though it clearly isn't _his _fault, Sam still can't believe he's missed it – let himself miss it. It's not like Dean's quite as subtle about being sick as he thinks he is. Sure, he's all false bravado and stoic face and manly grunts of 'I'm fine', but Sam is no novice at this. He's seen his brother sick and too proud to admit it more times than he likes to remember. He should have been able to pick up on it this time for sure.

"Mr. Hamill?"

Sam jumps as the strange voice intrudes his thoughts, forcefully rips him out of his reverie.

He's up on his feet instantly, hands nervously running over the thigh of his jeans as he tries to calm them, dry them since they've somehow gotten all sweaty. One quick at the clock above the door the doc just came through shows Sam that three hour have passed since he's last seen the man now standing in front of him.

_Three _hour. Godfuckingdamnit.

Sam's eyes shift to the man's face, recognizing him to be Dean's doctor – Dr. Silvers. Letting his gaze trail over the man's body Sam searches for blood, for any sign of how his brother is doing; as if he can read it on the man's light blue scrubs, somehow.

But he looks as clean as when he's left Sam sitting there, declaring that Sam can't stay with Dean during whatever the hell they were planning on doing… X-Rays, MRT – possibly surgery - Sam forgot all the details. All he remembers is that he hasn't yielded easily, only finally backing down when Dean suddenly started cramping and throwing up again, all the machines he'd been hooked up to going ballistic all of a sudden.

That has been over three hour ago – three hours in which Sam hasn't seen his brother, has gotten no word of his condition, fearing the worst.

Sam cuts the thought short, refusing to go there. He'd know if something happened to Dean since they wheeled him away. He'd know…he'd have _felt _it.

Scanning the doctor's appearance a little more closely Sam tries to peer beyond the professional mask that always managed to infuriate him but somehow pulls at his nerves even more now.

Dr. Silvers looks a little tired, maybe, but otherwise his emotions are carefully concealed behind a mask schooled by years of experience.

"How is my brother?" Sam hears himself ask, his voice almost as if it doesn't belong to him but some hoarse stranger instead.

At that moment the double doors behind the doctor swish open, revealing a long, brightly lit hallway through which an orderly pushes a bed. The bed is flanked by two nurses, surrounded by all kinds of equipment. On the gurney – practically buried underneath the tubes and bottles of infusion and a laughably thin, white sheet, lies Dean. He's not moving, not even breathing, Sam thinks – or maybe it's just the angle and the machines obscuring his view, but Dean positively looks…dead.

The cold shiver crawling down Sam's spine almost paralyzes him with fear.

_Not again._

'_Notagainnotagainnotagain' r_uns in an never-ending loop through Sam's head.

Sam takes a step forward, realizing it only when the doctor pushes himself between Sam and the bed, one hand held lightly against his chest as if he'd be able to push him back if the need arose. The gesture is so laughable, Sam can hardly believe it.

The top of man's head barely reaches Sam's shoulder and Sam has at least 40 pounds on the man, if not more.

Sam schools his features into the most stoic mask he can manage but puffs his chest out a little, using his superiority in height and bulk to make Dr. Silvers move backward one step, then another. But Dr. Silvers keeps himself between Sam and the bed nonetheless, doesn't look like he's going to completely give in to Sam's threat.

"Sir, we need to talk for a minute," the doctor ventures, his voice low and soothing and professionally level and Sam can't help but cringe, can't help but tense inside as he realizes what the man is trying to do.

"What's wrong with my brother? What did you do… Is he…?" Sam can't bring himself to finish the sentence – for all his false bravado. There are some things he can't voice, ever. Not again.

"He made it through surgery," Dr. Silvers says carefully, the answer no satisfactory at all.

Sam's head is spinning, out of control, rushing of blood too loud almost to hear his own thoughts.

_Critical condition…high fever…have to run some tests…possibly fluids building in his abdomen…emergency surgery…_

The doctor's words keep running through Sam's head in a never ending loop – just like they have for the past three hours of waiting.

But Dean's made – he's still alive…

As the bed comes closer, Sam can't take his eyes off his brother's face, pale and unmoving, his mouth and nose covered by a clear, plastic breathing mask.

The orderly throws a sideways look at Sam as he passes them by pushing the bed just a little faster as he senses the tension in the air.

Sam turns to follow when the doctor takes a half step between him the open hallway once more, blocking Sam's path. Keeping his eyes on Dean's unmoving form as long as somehow possible it takes every bit of control Sam can muster to not just barge ahead and go after him, the doctor be damned.

"Mr. Hamill,"

"I need to see my brother," Sam presses out and he feels his heart-rate pick up a notch when the orderly pushes Dean's gurney around a corner, disappearing out of sight.

"He's being brought into the ICU, sir. You cannot be with him right now. We'll have to wait until his condition is more stable,"

At that Sam wheels around, facing the smaller man and fixing him with what he's sure is almost a death glare.

"I need to see my brother." He repeats, slowly, holding eye contact to make the man understand that he's not going to accept anything but a straightforward escort to his brother's room.

Dr. Silvers, to give him credit, doesn't back down underneath Sam's flinty gaze, just nods a little, something like sympathy flashing through his eyes before they go back to their old, coolly professional selves.

"Your brother has yet to wake up from anesthesia and he's been given strong painkillers, so he certainly won't wake up for a while…"

"Then I'll wait – with him – until he does," Sam snaps, barely able to contain himself. But the urge to see his brother, to be with him – now – is so goddamn strong…

Sam starts another attempt to leaver but finds that the doctor hasn't moved out of his way. And with every second Sam is standing here, discussing this, Dean is moving farther and farther away from him.

"Sir, why don't we sit down for a moment so I can give you the details of your brother's condition,"

Gesturing toward the uncomfortable plastic chairs lining the wall Dr. Silvers takes yet another step in front of Sam, as if he's be able to actually, truly stop him.

Clearly, the man has no clue. Sam wouldn't even have to _try _very hard…

Sam doesn't have time to waste. God knows…god knows he's been staying away for far too long already, has been gone when Dean needed him, when he'd been feeling unwell, sick…when he'd been suffering in ways Sam can't even come close to imagining. And there's no way Sam will not be there now – not when his brother wakes up this time.

Maybe it's too little, too late, but Sam cannot _not_ try…

"I can assure you that your brother won't wake up any time soon," the doctor continues softly, twisting the paper cap off his head and crumbling it up in his hands.

Then he sighs, continues: "I will make sure that you'll be allowed to see him as soon as he's settled into his room…"

Sam takes a breath, feels his body trembling, his head swimming with nervous dizziness.

But the doctor is right. And Sam needs to know what's wrong with Dean. He might be pretty good at medical mumbo-jumbo, but most likely his best chance of finding out what exactly is wrong with his brother is to stick to the doctor's explanation instead of reading it off a chart or extorting it out of some nurse before hospital security throws him out on his ass.

It will save him time, if nothing else, and that in turn will give Sam more time to concentrate all his efforts on staying by his brother's side till Dean's released form this joint again. Like hell is anybody going to throw Sam out before Dean's ready to leave, too.

Dropping his stance, Sam takes a step back, moving out of the doctor's personal space, which he only now realizes he's been invading. He will give the man ten minutes – no more – to tell him everything he needs to know. Then he'll go find his brother, no matter what.

Taking another tentative, staggering step back, Sam relents.

He's just about to ask again what exactly is wrong with his brother, what they did to him…what will happen now, when suddenly the world tilts on its axis.

The bright lights of the hallway seem to increase in their intensity, the brightness sending searing a stab of pain right into his brain.

Reaching a hand toward his temple Sam digs desperate fingers against his skull.

He feels dizzy, a sudden drumming sound droning inside his head and there's nothing he can do as the doctor pushes him back and down as if he's little more than a ragdoll. Helplessly, Sam lets himself slide back into the chair he's been sitting on, his back hitting the backrest hard, the back of his head colliding with the wall behind it.

He can feel a hand on his shoulder, another one slipping between his head and the wall, senses a presence far too close to him. He can practically hear the blood rushing through his veins – taste _her_ blood on his palate yet his body is impossibly weak, not thrumming with energy as it usually does after one of his sessions with Ruby. Maybe it's the exhaustion of the past night…the lack of satisfaction to his body's cravings – or simply the worry about his brother's well-being, but Sam feels like he's about to pass out if he doesn't…

The weight of the flask presses against the inside of his jacket pocket, his fingers itching and unconsciously reaching up toward his chest, reaching for it – needing to open it. Just a sip – a tiny sip so his head straightens out again…

"Mr. Hamill,"

The voice is loud, way too close to his ear and Sam flinches back as suddenly, with an almost audible pop, his ears clear up again, the deafening heartbeat inside his head disappearing to once more make way to the low, hollow sounds of the hospital around him.

Blinking his eyes he clears the last cobwebs of shivering confusion from his vision, finds himself face to face with eyes he doesn't immediately recognize. _Not_ his brother's eyes…

"Sir, are you alright?"

The doctor…sure. The man is looming dangerously close, his face just inches from Sam's, one hand on his shoulder and Sam can't help but shrug off the touch with an almost violent motion. The second the hand slips off, the last bit of tension is gone, too.

"I think you passed out on me for a second there," Dr. Silvers says, but he takes a step back.

Drawing a shaky breath Sam sits up a little straighter in the chair, pressing his shoulders against the wall, trying to balance himself.

"I'm fine…fine," he presses out, can't help but realize that he sounds exactly like his brother all of a sudden.

Just like Dean, reassuring Sam that he's _fine, alright, peachy,_ right after puking his guts out after waking up screaming in the middle of the night…

But Sam is feeling better, the attack – or whatever just happened to him – is gone, body and mind back under control.

"I'm fine," Sam repeats with conviction "Just...tired. It's been a long night,"

The doctor still looks doubtful so Sam sits up straighter, rolling back his shoulders to instill confidence into his bearings. After a couple of seconds Dr. Silvers finally relents. He moves away from Sam, sits down two chairs down, giving him some space.

Sam can't help but feel relieved.

Sometimes - when he gets this…rush, this craving, he doesn't trust himself, feels like he might lose control. It's only for a second or two, most of the time, but that's enough time for him to do some serious damage. Sam knows that. It's bad enough when Dean's right in his face when it happens, but to go against a total stranger, someone who doesn't care enough about him to look past it and just let it go…

"So…my brother," Sam presses out.

But he's pleased to notice his voice sounds much stronger already, much more steady than before.

"Your brother…" the man still eyes him a little bit uneasily, but with the question, apparently, he snaps back into his professional mode.

The doc takes the crumbled paper-skull cap, flattening it against his thigh while collecting his thoughts – rounding up the facts. Then he looks up, squarely meeting Sam's gaze.

"Unfortunately, his condition turned out to be a lot more serious than we hoped,"

OoOoOoO

tbc

_AN:_

_Just a short note tonight, I promise!_

_Once again, thank you all for reading. No broken ramblings tonight - which should show you how much I am elevated by your wonderful support. i'm still nervous, mind you, but am doing much better (tonight)._

_The next chapter, I'm very confident to say, will be the last one. But I probably won't be able to post next week, because I will be going away over easter and most likely will not have internet access on the ranch I'm staying at. So, I hope you still find this story worth waiting for - I hope I can make it worth your time. _

_Happy easter to all of you. Thanks for taking the time to read, and maybe even tell me what you think._

_take care!_


	6. Chapter 6

_Ok, so, first off – I'm not dead, nor have I disappeared never to be seen again. I'm so, so sorry to have kept you waiting this long. There's no excuse, really, other than Real life getting in the way of my fanfiction-life time and time again._

_I know I haven't answered any reviews from the last chapter, but _ff dot net_ won't let me reply, for whatever reason. But please know that I read every single one of them, and I am so very thankful for your support and kind words. _

_I hope you'll still want to read this final chapter. If you're still out there and you find the time to spare, I hope you'll give it a chance!_

_So, here we go. Thanks so much for coming back. _

_I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

**Torn and Frayed**

**Chapter 6**

The lights in the room have been dimmed down, the only illumination coming from a single fluorescent light tube set behind a thin wooden visor just above Dean's bed.

Outside the little vault of timeless silence surrounding them, it's night. Again.

The door to the hallway is closed, the nurses finally accepting Sam's need for privacy, giving up on leaving the door open whenever they leave from their hourly 'visits', forcing Sam to get up time and time again to close it once more.

Sam can't handle the open door – constantly being on display, worrying about being spied on in addition to worrying about his brother's well-being. With the door open, Sam had to divide his attention between the world outside their little corner of privacy and his brother bed, and he just can't keep it up anymore.

Maybe he's being paranoid, expects judging eyes on every corner – on him.

Maybe it's him, or maybe it's just the stress wearing him down, but it really doesn't matter. Sam's nerves are worn down to the quick – and if he hasn't made many friends here, then so be it. He doesn't need any new friends. All he needs is for his brother to get better again so they can get the hell out of here.

But to do that – Dean will have to wake up, first.

He _should_ be awake by now.

At least that's what Sam tells himself as he fidgets on his chair for the umpteenth time in…well, pretty much three whole day. He used to be the most patient one in their little family, but even his patience only holds so long. Now he gets restless – impatient. Watching the motionless form of his brother in that hospital bed day in day out is unnerving, worrisome…devastating.

Sam's skin is itching, his leg bouncing incessantly for hours already, the sole of his boot making low, squealing noises on the plastic floor that both manage to turn his impatience up a notch and calm him down with its continuity.

For three whole days he's been sitting here, doing nothing but stare at his unresponsive brother, watching every rise and fall of his chest with hawk's eyes, interpreting every hitch in his breathing, every ever so small flutter of his eyelashes. Those lashes…they stubbornly keep veiling off Dean's eyes, staying closed and tangled up, thick beads of sweat clutching to them insistently, no matter how many time Sam wipes them away.

For three whole days Sam hasn't talked to anyone outside the steady entourage of nurses and doctors that come and go – and even then he's only kept to the barest necessities. He hasn't spoken to Ruby ever since that night…

She's called twice, but there's no phones allowed in the ICU and Sam hadn't really felt like talking to her anyways, so he's ignored her calls. To give her credit, Ruby has accepted his rejection quickly and stopped trying. Besides, Sam has no illusions as to who needs whom more in their relationship, and he is sure Ruby knows that pretty damn well, too.

Sooner rather than later Sam will be the one calling her again, but for the time being…for the time being he has to make do without her around. Sam can't leave Dean's side, not even for a couple of minutes to meet Ruby in one of the supply closets or the toilet, to satisfy his cravings, to help him get through another day.

And the days just keep getting _longer and longer_.

His flask is half-empty already, which makes Sam more nervous than he's ready to admit. He wants nothing more than to take it out and empty it in one long gulp, still the tremors that have taken over his hands, calm the throbbing beat that keeps drumming behind his eyes. But he can't do it – not yet. He has to ration the amount left wisely, has to make sure he can make it through another day or two before he can't postpone calling the demon again – beg her to meet him.

Hitting his knee on the bed frame because he's bouncing the leg so hard, Sam curses, rubs a heavy hand against the bruised joint.

He thinks he might be sweating. But damn the room's actually really chilly. And it's way too quiet- except for those lights above Dean's bed which give off this constant low, humming sound that grates on Sam's nerves in ways that he's starting to find unbearable. It gets louder and louder, stabbing into Sam's brain and turning his headache up notch after notch after freaking notch.

Already his eyes are watering, and if he didn't know any better, Sam would bet this is the beginning of a freaking vision – only it's not.

He knows exactly what this is.

He manages to resist for minutes, but then it's suddenly too much and he practically jumps out of his chair, pushing it back and over the floor with a loud screech while already searching the headboard of Dean's bed for the switch to turnoff the goddamn, annoying light. But he can't find it, fingers skimming almost frantically over the smooth surface of the panel, groping, searching as the buzzing in his head gradually grows louder and louder and louder still. Already his vision starts to blur dangerously, the noise pushing down reason and just making him…_angry_.

"Goddamnit…where in god's name…"

Dropping his gaze from the panel Sam frantically starts searching for that little remote that's supposed to be on every hospital-bed, the _force_ as Dean usually calls it with which a patient can do everything from turning on the lights to lifting the headrest of the bed to calling the nurse.

When they'd been younger still Dean had always pretended that the remote had a mute button for little brothers as well, aiming the device at Sam's head whenever he'd said something Dean hadn't wanted to hear. The memory moves something inside Sam's chest and he feels the corners of his mouth tug into a painful grimace, which suddenly freezes on his face as his eyes, instead of encountering the desired remote, are met by a set of glassy, unblinking green orbs.

For a second, Sam freezes.

He literally goes still mid-movements, muscles locking up, his brain practically _empty_ from one second to the next.

Every minute in the past 3 days he's spent in here, waiting, never leaving his brother's side – praying for him to open his eyes and simply give Sam any indication that he's still alive. But now that it actually happens, Sam's is overwhelmed.

He almost doesn't dare breathe, stupidly feels as if caught in the act. Sam doesn't know exactly why he feels that way, what he supposedly did wrong, but the feeling's strong. Definitely pretty damn strong.

And then, within the blink of an eye the spell is broken as Dean's eyes drift close again.

Sam's first notion is to be relieved.

Then he realizes what just happened.

"Dean, hey… Hey," the words leave him in a rush and Sam's surprised to find his voice clogged and hoarse. He sounds desperate, _needy._

But he needs Dean to open his eyes again, to look at him. He needs to see his brother's eyes to know he's still there.

"Dean, hey…come on. _Come on,"_

Dropping the hand from the panel on the wall Sam's afraid to make contact, not sure how his brother will react to his touch. All he knows is, that Dean _has_ to wake up. Now. He has to wake up so Sam can breathe freely again.

"Dean, open your eyes…_now_."

Dean's reaction to Sam's order is instantaneous, deeply ingrained and sadly predictable.

His eyes snap open, sweat tangled lashes weighing down lids which are swollen with sleep and medication. But this time they don't latch onto Sam. Instead, they dart around furiously, flicking past Sam as if he's not even there.

Sam is left to watch as his brother blinks feverishly – if to clear his vision from sweat dripping into them or out of simple disorientation is hard to tell. They can't seem to focus but roam the room almost frantically, darting this way and that. His throat is working soundlessly while deathly pale and painfully dry lips form unheard words that somehow never make it out in the open.

His face is grey in the diffuse light that fills the room - hollowed out, yet his eyes shine brightly with confusion and fever and wordless anguish. Sam tries to catch his brother's gaze, tries to anchor Dean to the here and now but it's close to impossible since he won't keep still, eyes roaming as if he's searching for something that's clearly not there - and still he's not giving up.

And isn't that just so typically Dean – never giving up, even when the point is more than mute, when everybody else would have long ago given up and set his mind on something else. He's not completely there – maybe not there at all and while he's apparently still too weak to do much besides lie there and _look_ as if he's terrified out of his mind Sam sees his brother's hands lifting off the mattress, fingers starting to claw at something above his chest, groping into thin air.

His breathing gradually becomes more pronounced, little grunts of pain or panic pressing out between tightly sealed lips, eyes wide, pupils blown to impossible proportions.

It takes Sam long – way too long to realize what's going on.

Later he blames it on the buzzing inside his head, the dizziness that threatened to sweep him off his feet; the naked _need_ he's been experiencing for far too long without being able to satisfy his cravings.

When he finally does figure it out, though, when he realizes what kind of nightmare the fever and pain and loads of meds they are pumping into him have thrown Dean into, Sam sobers within the beat of a second.

The sudden lack of noise inside his head is almost deafening.

Dean's trying to claw his way out - _out of the coffin._

In the throws of his feverish nightmares before the surgery he's been lost in hell – and even though he's made it through surgery and his fever is finally going down a little, Dean's still not done fighting. He's still held prisoner inside his own mind.

Sam gasps for air at the same time as he reaches to take hold of his brother's frantically searching hands. But Dean is clearly not aware of his surroundings, fighting the lid of a coffin only he can see, lips clamped shut against the intrusion of imaginary soil and dirt and splinters of woods. He fights Sam's hands with startling ferocity, knocks them out of the way to continue clawing at thin air.

He's done it a couple of times in the past; it's no secret that Dean's having nightmares about hell – he even admitted to it already so there's nothing new. But a couple of times Sam has caught his brother lying in bed with his eyes open, trying to dig his way out of that grave – over and over and over again, and no amount of coaxing or yelling had been able to snap him out of his desperate attempts to free himself.

The only thing that ever helped had been patience – and time.

Sam slips back into the chair, scooting closer while reaching out one hand to find purchase on Dean's shoulder, the other keeping its hold on Dean's left hand – the one closest to him. He's careful to avoid the tubes sticking out of the back of Dean's hand and the crook of his elbow, closing his fingers over his brother's with soft but insistent pressure. At first, Dean fights him even more, tendons in his arm straining and coiling, grunting moans getting louder as he fights against the newest addition to his nightmare. But he clearly isn't nearly close to being on top of his game, is weakened by days of raging fever, by surgery and infection and drugs and nightmares too cruel to imagine.

There's no knowing if it's simply his strength giving out or if he actually relents to Sam's help, but after endless minutes his muscles finally quiver and quake underneath Sam's palm as, after one last attempt to dislodge himself from Sam's hold, he finally lets Sam push his arm down. His right arm remains moving, but instead of reaching up he now grabs for the thin sheet covering him halfway up his chest, digging claw-like fingers into the now sweat-soaked fabric and holding on with all his might. The rest of his body stays strung like a bow ready to snap any second, as if ready to bolt.

His eyes keep skipping here and there, his breathing ragged and way too fast.

Right on cue his heart-monitor picks up and Sam's immensely glad that he's turned down the sound earlier. He knows that it will do nothing to calm his brother down if he's assaulted with the frantic beeping of the machine when waking up.

The nurse's station is just a couple of feet down the hall and it will take them 30 seconds, tops, before picking up the alarm. And once they do they'll come storming in, probably forcing Sam to release his hold on Dean's hand, maybe even make him leave the room altogether.

But Sam won't leave. And he knows with absolute certainty that he can't allow anybody else to see his brother like this. This…it's a private moment – a moment not even meant for Sam to see, but most definitely not meant for the eyes of some stranger.

"Dean, hey…come on, man. Stop this - snap out of it. Look at me,"

Sam keeps his voice low, level, the pressure of his hands on his brothers arm steady even though he feels like shaking Dean, forcing him to wake up from his terror. But he knows from experience that it's most important to slowly draw Dean out of whatever dream or fever-induced vision he's dug himself into. Loud and harsh words have been their father's way to handle things and Sam always detested John for the way he commanded them around at times – how he especially succeeded in commanding Dean around. Sure, it had worked, but their brotherly relationship has never been about leadership and obedience.

No matter how many times Sam complained about Dean bossing him around or taking the lead in a hunt, in reality it has never been about standing above the other. It has always been about safety and efficiency. About trusting each other before all else.

Sam hears movement outside, a little ways down the hall. It's the middle of the night, so he maybe has a couple seconds more than during the day, when the nurse's station is fully staffed, but it won't be much longer. Never taking his eyes off his brother's profile Sam forces himself to stay calm, to try and instill all of that calm into his brother somehow. Dean's clearly still trapped inside a fevered body and mind. He needs Sam to keep his cool now.

And Sam needs to do this – for his brother as much as for himself, maybe. He's lost his focus somehow, lately, tends to forget sometimes that Dean is the one he's doing this for – everything.

It started with Dean – him going to hell for Sam, had been about revenge first but has somehow, along the way, turned into something else entirely. Sam is not sure what it _is_ about now, but he knows, suddenly, for a moment of clarity as he watches his brother fight, that no matter what it has become, it might actually not be worth it.

It's not worth it if they are losing each other along the way.

"Dean," Sam whispers again, leaning a little closer. "Hey, man, take it easy. You're safe. You're safe now."

Dean's eyes remain focused onto some undistinguishable point on the ceiling and for a moment Sam doesn't think his brother has heard at all, but then he realizes that Dean's heart rate calms down somewhat, the beeping of the monitor dropping to a less frantic rhythm.

Maybe it's just his strength giving out - the meds pulling him under again; Sam will never know for sure. But he wants to believe that it's him, instead, his presence and touch and calm reassurance that finally make his brother give up the fight, make him close his eyes and drift off again mere seconds before the door to the room swings open and a flock of nurses and doctors come rushing in.

Sam will never know, but he wants to believe that, maybe, all is not yet lost between them.

OoOoOoO

Over the course of the next two or three hours Dean resurfaces two more times, both times trying to fight his way out of the coffin and his drug-induced confusion. Both times he's letting himself be calmed down by Sam's presence and a few mumbled words of reassurance that are probably meant for Sam's sake only, that never reach Dean's ears after all. But it works, somehow, and that's all that counts, even though Sam thinks he's dying a little inside every time his brother slips out of his grasp again without giving any sign of recognizing Sam or even acknowledging his surroundings.

The third time Dean wakes, he finally stays calm. His hands remain on the blanket, fingers twitching a little but instead of reaching up and away they merely dig into the sheets they are lying on, bunching the material between them as if he's trying to tether himself to the bed. He doesn't say anything, remains staring into space and no coaxing from Sam's part, no begging words of _'please look at me'_ manage to draw his focus away from that spot on the ceiling he's staring at so intently.

He stays like that for quite a while – long enough that Sam considers calling in the nurse because there has to be something wrong for sure, but just as he reaches for the call-button Dean's eyes slip shut and he's out again.

So Sam waits.

His nervousness – _one-edge-ness_ – fades over the following hours and he just sits there – as he's always done when waiting for his brother to wake up from surgery, doesn't even want to think about how many times he'd done this in the past. It's too sad to really think about it – the countless times of waiting and hoping and waiting some more.

It feels familiar – way too familiar.

At one point, Sam finally falls asleep. After almost four days of being pretty much alert he's now basically dead on his feet.

He's awakened what feels like merely minutes later by a tingling sensation somewhere in the back of his mind, a…_feeling_…for a lack of better words. It's nothing he can pinpoint exactly, but he knows he's being watched before he even opens his eyes.

Sam waits. He waits for a second to get his bearing and take stock. It's probably one of the nurses, taking the opportunity to seize him up or something.

His head feels clear – _clearer_, somehow, than it has in a long time. It's weird, in a way – this amount of clarity that just adds to an overall confusion of what exactly he is doing – not here but in the greater scheme of things. If it's all really worth it – this fight, the sacrifices. Because, as sure as anything, losing his brother after just getting him back has to count as the biggest goddamn sacrifice of them all.

Before he can take his despairing thoughts any further Sam decides to end this charade, to man up. Who knows, maybe the nurse is actually worth looking back at.

It makes him smile – internally, thinking how he's channeling Dean now of all times. As if one of the two remaining Winchesters has to keep up the appearance for the women of this world.

Sam doesn't give his observer any forewarning, no chance to look away as he just opens his eyes – gaze as alert as it can be after spending hours resting in a questionably comfortable chair, upper body slumped against the bed his brother is lying on.

There is no nurse anywhere near the bed – nowhere in the damn room.

The only thing Sam sees are two orbs of murky green staring at him.

It's just them.

Him and Dean.

And Dean is awake and looking at him through heavily lidded eyes.

Sam has to fight down the urge to draw back, to snap a sharp comment on Dean's silent observation.

His brother has yet to blink and suddenly it occurs to Sam that, maybe, Dean is in trouble, can't vocalize that he's in discomfort, hurting – dying… There's something in his eyes…a look Sam can't quite place. Something is…_off._

Slowly, very slowly Sam pushes himself off the mattress, eyes never leaving his brother's, realizing with a tiny hint of relief that Dean's eyes are actually following him, tracking his movements.

So he's aware, not lost inside his dreams this time.

Sam smiles – actually smiles for the first time in days as he realizes that this might be it; Dean's back – finally.

"Hey," Sam presses out, voice still sleep-clogged, lips dried and chapped from sleeping and not talking to anybody but himself – in his own head.

Finally, Dean blinks. His eyelids flutter for a second or two, the struggle to keep them open apparent in the almost forceful way his brows are pulled up, but he doesn't seem to be ready to let go again. And, secretly, Sam is happy about his brother's insistence. He doesn't know if he could go on – could stay strong if he has to go through yet another hour or more without at least speaking a couple of words with his big brother, without getting at least a tiny shred of hope that Dean will, eventually, be alright again. Or as close to alright as he'll ever be.

But Dean's eyes remain open even though it looks like it's almost more than he is capable of right now. There are small lines of pain – around his eyes and between his brows, lines that haven't been there before, Sam thinks. Well, he's hardly been awake so far, so most likely the painkillers he's on are wearing off.

Sam considers calling the nurse but selfishly decides to postpone it for another minute or two. First he has to make sure he's got Dean back. Really back. Then, maybe, he's going to be able to let his brother go for a little while again.

Dean swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing convulsively, jaw working beneath the three-day stubble that's covering his cheeks and chin and throat. He looks as if he's lost ten pounds, cheekbones and jaw sticking out way too prominently through grayish skin.

"Hey," Sam repeats, forcing calm into his voice as he slides his fingers over his brother's left forearm, the skin underneath his palm clammy and warm. Dean's muscles clench and coil in response to the touch but he doesn't draw back – and Sam wouldn't let go even if he did.

His eyes, even though only half-mast, look strange. There's nothing of the relief Sam expected seeing there, not even the carefully set-up indifference Sam has gotten so used to in the weeks leading up to this. Sam leans forward, propping his free arm up on the mattress to close the distance between them, to let Dean know that he's there. But the motion seems to startle Dean. With a visible flinch he starts drawing away only to be stopped very suddenly and none too gently as his body protests the sudden movement, allowing him no freedom, no leeway.

A sharp breath escapes his lips before he manages to cut the sound short. His eyes squint, lids fluttering dangerously, but he won't allow them to close, keeps them trained on Sam with weary attention.

"Dean, hey…easy man. Just take it easy," Extending a hand, Sam wants to soothe his brother, realizing too late that, given past experiences, this certain approach might not work exactly in his favor. It's a repeat performance of back at the motel, when Sam found his brother, feverish and delusional…

Dean again flinches as Sam reaches for him, but he doesn't move away anymore, his body locked tight.

"Hey, Dean. It's me – Sam. It's me," Sam whispers softly – his voice toned into a level of calm which betrays the nervous fear tightening his own chest.

Dean doesn't move - hardly blinks even; just keeps staring at him.

It takes everything Sam has to not reach out and pin his brother down and shake some sense into him – to _make_ him see. But he does restrain himself, his body aching with the effort it takes to not force this, to stay calm.

Looking into his brother's glassy, feverishly confused eyes all Sam can see there is the need to run, to turn around and get _away_ from Sam - and the only reason Dean doesn't actually do it is because he knows he can't. Right now he physically can't, so he stays right where he is, facing this – his fears. Sam doesn't know what his brother's seeing but he can tell that it's far from pleasant.

"Sam…"

Sam can't tell if it's a question or a statement, Dean's voice is too low – too weak to make out the difference.

"Yeah…yeah, Dean. It's me."

Sam tries a smile again, finds it uncomfortable – unnatural almost as it tugs up the corners of his mouth, activating muscles which have been kept immobile for far too long now.

Dean's eyes stay on Sam's face, brows drawn, eyes glassy and confused.

_*"No. Not you. You promised."*_

The words keep repeating themselves in Sam's head – over and over. Dean's words – spoken in feverish confusion and unimaginable pain in that motel room some…four days ago.

Sam had had more than enough time to think about it since, to figure out what Dean meant – what he saw when he looked at Sam back then. And he thinks he knows, but he'll never be entirely sure – doesn't know if he'll ever want to have his suspicions confirmed, actually.

"It's me, Dean…Sam. I'm right here. You're in a hospital – are pretty damn sick. But you'll be alright. And I'm here…right here,"

There's a thick bead of sweat tracking its way from Dean's forehead down over the bridge of his nose, slipping down the side to run in an abstract trail along the stubble decorating Dean's upper lip and cheek. He swallows, manages to make the simple, automatic act look painful and exhausting.

Sam can feel the muscles of Dean's forearm twist as his fist keeps clenching and unclenching in an almost compulsive motion. At the same time he lifts his free arm, the limb seemingly weighting a ton as he brings it up – almost dragging it over the sheets and up toward his chest. He starts tracing his fingers over his gown – slowly at first but his movements quickly become more agitated, the growing anxiety transferring to his face.

His hand keeps searching his chest, almost tearing at the thin and washed out fabric of his gown.

Sam is lost for a moment, doesn't know what to make of his brother's behavior.

He's supposed to get better, now that they are in the hospital, now that he had surgery and spent days on all kinds of meds that are supposed to help him…

"Dean, what…tell me what's wrong," Sam pleads, desperate.

He leans forward, scoots his chair even closer toward the bed.

Dean's eyes snap away from Sam's face so suddenly, the movement seems way too fast for his weakened body. Following his brother's gaze, it takes Sam only a second to realize what had Dean in such desperation.

The amulet.

_Dean's_ amulet.

Which is currently wound around Sam's neck, dangling out from the collar of his t-shirt, holding Dean's gaze captive.

The hospital staff took it away from Dean before surgery, gave it to Sam along with Dean's other meager personal belongings. Sam knows how much this piece of jewelry means to his brother, can't help but feel a little flattered because – yeah – _he_ gave it to Dean, back then. Dean treasures it ever since, hardly ever takes it off, except for the occasional stint in the hospital – and his time in Hell. Which is the reason he keeps looking for it whenever he wakes from one of his nightmares – uses the trinket to pull himself back into reality.

Not finding it around his neck now…

Reaching up, Sam slowly pulls the cord over his head, sees how Dean follows his every movement with weary eyes, gaze jumping between Sam and the brass head of the horned god.

"You want this back?" Sam asks quietly, holding the trinket out toward his brother.

Dean blinks, swallows, the fight to make himself believe that it's actually, truly real visible on his face as if declared in bright red letters. Sam can't even come close to imagining how real, how vivid his brother's dreams have to be if it's so hard for him to pull free of them again.

"I just kept it safe until you woke up again." Sam explains carefully.

Aware of Dean's still mistrusting scrutiny, Sam reaches out to place the amulet along with the twisted up cord onto Dean chest, nudging his brother's hand until Dean reaches up to close nimble fingers around it, burying it in his fist. Then he closes his eyes for a moment, takes a breath.

When he looks back at Sam, he seems weary still, but the fear has been replaced by relief; relief so palpable, Sam can almost feel it tingling on his own tongue.

So, is this it? Just like that - Dean is back? Sam should be hurt – and he does feel a short pang in his chest as he realizes that it takes the amulet to pull his brother out – that Sam's presence is not enough anymore. There used to be a time when _he_ used to be enough…

"Sam," Dean's voice is still rough, deep and gravelly – but the word in itself is spoken with conviction now, is far from the question it has been before. It's a sigh of contentment that holds nothing of the all too familiar mistrust or indifference that's been coloring every single word spoken between them lately.

"Yeah," Sam replies, mouth suddenly too dry to say much else. "Hey, man,"

"Hey," Dean rasps - whispers, voice barely audible over the slight hiss of the oxygen cannula that's lodged underneath his nostrils. He swallows heavily, runs his tongue over his bottom lip, swallows again.

"You're awake," Sam states dumbly, well aware how stupid that sounds. But it's all he can think of – and he hears his voice almost crack at the last word, can see from the glint chasing through Dean's fever glazed eyes that he's picked up on his brother's emotions as well.

Dean blinks again, takes a freaking eternity to reopen his eyes. Tightening his grip on Dean's left forearm Sam waits his brother out, noting with a burst of relief that, this time, Dean doesn't flinch away, doesn't react in any way at all. And Sam need the contact, would hold his brother's hand even, if it wasn't socially awkward and totally out of place.

"Are you in pain? Dean? Is there anything you need? Anything I can do?"

"Water…" Sam guesses the word more than he hears it and he quickly reaches for the cup of luke-warm water and straw that one of the nurses has left on the nightstand during her last visit.

Dean drinks a couple of sips without even trying to get up or support the cup with his own hands and is left exhausted afterwards.

His eyes keeps sliding closed, but he stubbornly refuses to give in. Sam feels a strange tug of both exasperation and admiration inside his chest.

"Maybe you should just…you have to be exhausted, Dean. And you have to be in pain…want me to get the doc? They've kept you on the pretty good stuff so far…" Sam is rambling, knowing full well that Dean won't agree to him calling the doc in – or anybody else for that matter. To Dean it has always been most important that Sam is there with him whenever he is stuck in the hospital. Sam – not their father. Not even John had been able to keep Dean down if Sam hadn't been there.

Sure enough Dean shakes his head, a miniscule movement that somehow still manages to portray all the insistency Sam is used to seeing from his brother.

Dean's lips are moving again and Sam leans closer, surprised by just how weak his brother really is. And again he feels this terrible, terrible lump form in his throat at the thought of not catching up on his brother's condition earlier, how he'd almost been too late. How he'd walked out on Dean to meet up with Ruby when Dean had been in pain and almost dying…

"Happened…?"

The water seems to have done little in helping Dean's parched throat, but he is forming words now, even though they're still pretty low in volume.

Sam scoots the chair closer, hitting his knee on the metal frame of the bed, angling himself sideways while maintaining eye-contact. He stays close enough so he can keep his hand on his brother's forearm where he's planted it earlier, far enough away to not crowd his brother's personal space.

"What happened?" Dean asks again, eyes shadowed by long, damp lashes, and Sam feels uncomfortable, nervous.

_Does he know I walked out that night?_ Sam wonders, not for the first time.

_Does he know where I've been, what I've done? Did he wake up, alone and in pain while I was out, sneaking behind his back?_

_Sneaking behind his back to save the world! _Another voice inside his head interrupts his moment of self-doubt. _Sneaking behind his back to avenge HIM._

It helps – a little, pushing that terribly feeling of guilt a little ways to the back of his mind again. But it's still lingering there, prodding and poking at his conscience, dangerously close to the surface.

"Sam…what…?" Dean starts to repeat, biting the sentence off as his face draws tight, brows meeting over the bridge of his nose.

Misery is bleeding out of his every pore, filling the room with a chill and a smell that's almost impossible to take.

Sam swallows down the bile rising in his throat at seeing his brother in such obvious, open distress.

"You came down with Appendicitis. Or rather, your appendix ruptured...spread this…stuff, like pus, all through your abdomen. You almost…" Sam breaks off, bites his lips as if only now the implications of what happened, what almost happened, truly sinks in. "…they said you were damn lucky you made it,"

His brother almost _died._

Died of goddamn natural causes because he was too stubborn to tell his own brother that he was in freaking agony.

"No that's…not possible…" Dean whispers. Apparently he's given up on trying to give his voice volume.

But his eyes are relaying all he wants to say, really, wide and unbelieving and brimming with confusion and pain he can't control, try as he might.

Grabbing the little remote that is dangling off the bed's railing next to Sam's thigh (he's made sure to put it there within easy reach so he doesn't have to start looking for it again), Sam lets his finger hover just above call-button, itching to call the nurse. He should help his brother, ease his pain. But something still holds him back.

"Yeah it's possible you stupid…" closing his eyes momentarily Sam dips his chin, swallowing down the rant of accusations he wants to release on his brother. This, certainly, is not the time.

"Yeah it's possible. I mean, you almost died, Dean. That thing just burst open and filled your inside with pure poison, man. Hell…you had to have felt it for days. A few minutes later and maybe they wouldn't have been able to help you anymore," The words taste sour on Sam's palate, the knowledge of how many times both of them have tethered on the brink already – how both of them have died already…but they're still here. Only, can they really expect to have a never-ending amount of get-back-from-the-dead-cards at their disposal?

How many more times can they cheat death and fate and just go on dodging the proverbial bullet over and over and over again?

Dean swallows drily, eyes still heavy-lidded but skipping in confusion.

"No it's not…not possible," he says with determination and Sam sees Dean's left hand creep across the blanket, going for his abs, fingers trying to find the source of pain underneath the blanket.

With quiet insistence Sam reaches over with his free hand, plugs Dean's hand away from the wound and holds onto it for a couple of seconds until he's sure his brother's given up on trying to reach for it again.

"Yeah it's possible. Hell Dean, you want them to show you pictures? Because I saw you – and I saw the damn thing in a jar – saw what it did to you. It was…Jesus…it was _bad_, Dean,"

Dean shakes his head curtly, too weak to cut Sam off but apparently unwilling to back down. Sam takes the chance to charge on ahead, not giving his brother time to gather his strength to start a discussion.

"OK, lets recap this, shall we? Because the doc explained the symptoms to me and I'm pretty sure, while you of course didn't find it necessary to share, you've been through each and every one of them."

Dean gives him that look – a mixture between hurt and stubborn pride, but Sam won't be fazed by it. Not now. He's still too damn angry to let his brother get away with it this time.

"You haven't been feeling well for days - nausea, headaches, low grade temperature. The pain started in the middle of your belly and worked its way down toward your right side. The nausea got worse – so did the fever. You haven't kept anything edible inside you for days, the fever climbing to over 105 degrees by the time you were admitted. And if you hadn't been too goddamn stubborn to tell me you weren't feeling well, we might even have been able to figure this one out _before_ you almost died."

Sam can see the wheels in his big brother's head turning, can see him replaying the past days' events as Sam rattles off the symptoms – the short and angry version – to him. But the smug smirk that curls Sam's lips disappears again quickly when Dean swallows dryly, shakes his head again.

"You…you don't understand…"

Sam almost growls in frustration, and he dips his chin low and closes his eyes for a second, praying for patience.

"What? What don't I understand, Dean?"

"'s not possible…cause…" but he doesn't get to finish the sentence.

Instead Dean breaks off, coughs dryly as the exertion of speaking a mere four words proves too much for his battered body. The strain of the coughs almost bends him in half and Sam is forced to watch helplessly as his brother writhes on the bed in front of him, merely inches away yet somehow way out of his reach. Dean tries to turn on his side, tries to curl up his body to protect his abdomen but the wound Sam knows to be hidden underneath the thin hospital gown and the even thinner sheet makes any movement pretty much impossible, tethering Dean to the spot.

"Easy…easy," Sam hears himself chant, barely restraining himself from reaching out and pressing his own hand to the trembling plane of Dean's abdomen. He knows the initial urge to press down on a wound, knows that the pressure will feel wonderful at the same time as it will tear Dean apart. So he does the only thing he can do and hold on to Dean's twisting and coiling forearm – to hold him down as much as to lend him strength.

"Try and relax, man,"

Dean grunts something – something that could mean '_you relax'_, but maybe the snarky comeback is just wishful thinking on Sam's part, because Dean doesn't look anywhere near up to any kind of retort, let alone a sarcastic one.

"The more you fight this…" Sam starts, bites the sentence off before he can finish it. Because, yeah – the more Dean fights this, the more it will hurt, but it's certainly nothing Dean can control at the moment.

Casting a frantic look around Sam finds one of the spare pillows one of the nurses brought him.

"Stay still," he snaps at his brother, nerves strung tight as he untangles the fingers of one hand from his brother's arm, well aware that, the minute the pressure is off Dean will keep reaching for his belly again.

Quickly, Sam grabs the pillow, putting it on Dean's abdomen. He has to push Dean's hand away to place it on top of the surgery wound, then Sam puts his own hand on top of it, applies the faintest, most feeble pressure. It's far from a perfect solution, Sam is the first to know that, but he also knows that he won't be able to keep Dean's hands away from the wound, not until his brother is more in control again. And using the pillow will take the pressure spread out over a wider area, will not place the whole force on the too fresh sutures and way too delicate area of Dean's lower right abdomen.

Sam remembers watching his brother use this method on their father once when John had come home from a hunt bleeding from a gash in his abdomen.

It doesn't compensate for a good round of drugs to take the pain away for a while, but right now – just like back then - it's all they've got. Sam is not ready to let Dean slip away, is not ready to share his brother with the doctors and nurses and orderlies just jet. So he has to improvise.

He keeps up the gentle pressure, hopes to god that he's not torturing his brother for nothing, that they get to spend some more time together before the next round of meds will knock him out again.

After minutes of tense silence which is only broken by Dean's harsh breathing, Sam feels his brother relaxes a fraction, sinking a little deeper into the mattress again.

"Maybe we should talk about this later," Sam offers quietly, partly relieved to give Dean a way out of this – to give himself a way out of this – and partly disappointed he doesn't have more time with his brother. After days of silently waiting, he just needs more time than this.

Sam shouldn't really be surprised, but of course his brother doesn't go for it. Dean shakes his head, muscle in his jaw jumping nervously, but he puts an almost visible effort into relaxing muscle after muscle.

When he finally lies still again, the occasional shiver still flitting through his body, Sam feels as if all of Dean's tension has transferred to him, somehow. He's more on edge than he's willing to admit, his own body aching in response to his brother's misery.

A little reluctantly, Sam removes his hand, pushing the pillow and blanket aside to warrant a quick, worried look at the white gown covering Dean's surgical wound. No traces of fresh blood, at least.

Good.

And just as he thinks that Dean, despite his best efforts and stubborn insistences of staying awake to discuss this, has succumbed to his body's demand for rest again, Dean starts talking.

"Can't be…the appendix, Sam," he breathlessly picks up on the conversation as if they were never interrupted at all.

There are beads of sweat lining the rim of his upper lip, a thin sheen of perspiration making his forehead glisten unhealthily. He cracks his eyes open, focuses on Sam through squinted lids.

"Can't be, because…I had it taken out already."

It takes Sam a moment to catch on to his brother's statement, to ease himself back into the topic.

"What? No, Dean, that's impossible. I saw the damn thing in a _jar,_" Sam leans forward as if physical closeness will make Dean understand, will make him accept the truth.

Dean shakes his head, gathering the strength to contradict his brother.

"No…Sam,"

"Goddamnit, Dean. Will you just, for once, shut up and trust me…"

Sam is about ready to get the hell up and prove his brother wrong, grab those pics from Dean's file – or better yet, bring the disfigured remainders of the ruptured appendix marinated in formaldehyde just to make his brother back down.

How much goddamn proof does Dean need? Can't he just for once in his life shut the hell up and just believe his little brother when he clearly knows what he's talking about?

But Dean wouldn't be his own, annoying self, if he didn't contradict Sam's every word. It would be a first if he just accepted Sam's word, follow his lead…

"I was 8…maybe 9. Dad wasn't home… Only the two of us," Dean swallows, his face twisting, but he goes on undeterred, "I got sick…made you call Bobby,"

Dean's brow is furrowed to the uttermost extent now, pain and misery bleeding out of his very being. He looks frustrated at not being able to form whole sentences without panting as if he's just run a marathon, but at the same time there's something else there, a new strength, fierce and unchecked.

And Dean's word stir something inside Sam – but he can't quite place it. He stays still, fingers against Dean's too hot forearm as he wrecks his brain for the memory he can feel lingering right there, at the edge of his awareness.

"Maybe you don't…'member. You were only a little…squirt…"

Sam can't help but furrow his brow at the dip, but the effort's half-assed at best.

Because…

Goddamnit.

He'd been…yeah, four or so. Dad hadn't been home – gone on a hunt, even though Sam hadn't known it at the time - leaving them both behind. And Dean had gotten pretty damn sick…terribly sick.

At the time he had not told Sam, of course, had kept taking care of his little brother, preparing food, giving him his nightly baths, playing with him - sneaking into the Laundromat at night to wash their clothes without anybody noticing. And then, one night, he'd woken Sam who'd been sleeping in the bed next to his brother, and had asked him to bring him the phone.

"_I can't get up, Sammy – not feeling so good. But I'm alright, you don't have to worry, alright? Just…you have to bring me the phone. I gotta make a call…"_

Back then Sam had been too small to really realize what had been going on with his brother for days, that he'd been sick and getting sicker by the minute. That he'd been suffering. That he'd been holding it together only because he'd had to take care of his little brother.

Dean had called Bobby, and Bobby had been there hours later, had packed them up and…

Shit.

It hits Sam so hard, he doesn't understand how he could have ever forgotten.

Bobby had come and packed them both up and driven them straight to the hospital. And then Bobby and Sam had stayed in a waiting room for a long time, one of the nurses bringing Sam coloring books and candy and some toy-soldiers to play with. And then, hours later…Dean in a hospital bed…all pale and looking right out ridiculous with one of those brightly colored hospital gowns they have for kids – with clowns and balloons on it…

Appendicitis.

A ruptured appendix, to be exact.

Sam remembers the foreign sounding word as it had bounced off Bobby's lips, remembers trying to say it right but getting it wrong time and time again. Dean's appendix had ruptured, he'd had peritonitis – another difficult word for a four-year-old – had spent two weeks in the hospital before being released.

John had come a couple days after Dean had been admitted, Sam remembers that too. They'd all gone to Bobby's afterwards, had stayed at the junkyard until Dean had been better again.

Shit.

Sam takes a breath that stutters in his lungs, bounces around for endless seconds before being released again with an audible grunt of surprise.

How could he have forgotten? He remembers it all so clearly now…

Dean's watching him tiredly, silently following the display of emotions on Sam's features as he relives the memory.

"Shit," Sam breathes out, realizing that, yeah, his brother is right.

But it definitely is Dean's goddamn appendix that's given him trouble now, more than two decades later. The doctors _showed_ it to Sam – in a glass jar – looking straight out of one of those cheap horror movies. It had looked…gross and surreal and had made Sam throw up a couple of minutes later in the confines of the toilet.

Dean raises a tired eyebrow at Sam, scrunches it down again quickly, his hand once again creeping across the blanket covering his abs.

"Stop picking at that," Sam admonishes distractedly as he swats his brother's hand away again. Sam's other hand is still clamped around Dean's left forearm and since so far Dean hasn't made the slightest notion of shrugging off the touch, Sam is intent to keep it there.

"Has to be…something else…" he offers, voice strained and tired. "You sure they didn't…take out something…that should have staying in there…?"

Sam shakes his head, worries his lips. And then, as if someone switches on a light inside his head it comes to him.

"God, right…Right," he whispers, can't believe he hasn't thought of it before. But then – before he hasn't really questioned the doc's diagnosis. He's just assumed that the whole appendix-issue is as normal as it can be with anyone else. Anyone but Dean.

Because apparently the Winchesters never do anything the 'normal' way. Story of their freaking lives…

"What…" Dean squirms a little and Sam realizes he's digging his fingers into Dean's forearm a little too hard, sees the deep red imprints of his digits against Dean's too pale skin when he loosens them again.

"You…all your scars – they're gone," Sam mutters, wheels in his head still turning as he starts to make sense of it all.

Dean just frowns at him, too exhausted to verbally admonish Sam for his apparent off-the-topic comment.

"Castiel." Sam states, matter-of-factly.

"Don't," Dean starts, stopping to clear his throat before trying again. "Don't call him here, Sam."

Sam shakes his head, a nervous laugh bubbling inside his chest, begging to be released.

"No…I'm not gonna call him. But your scars, Dean. They were gone when you came back from…when you came back, right? The hellhound's wounds were gone along with every other scar you ever had. Every other scar but the…" he gestures toward Dean's right shoulder, barely sees the uncomfortable scowl he gets when mentioning the permanent mark marring Dean's body.

The constant reminder of what happened to him.

Sam runs one hand through his hair, presses a flat palm against the tight muscles of his neck.

"You came back as good as new. No marks, no nothing. So…I mean I never thought about it – _we_ never thought about it, but apparently you really came back…whole again."

And doesn't it all make perfect sense now. Sam finally huffs out a laugh as all the missing puzzle-pieces fall into place.

"I mean the scar from back then – the appendicitis scar – it's gone just like everything else. Every cut or bullet-hole or surgery-scar you ever had. Why would they – the angels…god…whoever - only put you back together on the outside, huh? Why not do it right, rebuilt you from scratch, so to speak, inside out. Put all the original parts back in…"

It's so damn obvious, Sam could slap himself.

Could slap _Dean_, too, because it would have been a textbook case and together they would have maybe figured this out without letting it get this far – but Dean dismissed it, like he loved to dismiss his physical weaknesses until they came to bite him in the ass.

He'd dismissed it because he'd rather be suffering in silence than talk to his own brother.

Dean frowns, clearly finding it hard to wrap his head around the newfound facts and stay awake at the same time, dig his way through the haze of pain clouding his mind and weakening his body.

"But how…" he grounds out, eyes still pinned on Sam's face even though he clearly is having trouble keeping them open. "How's that even possible?"

"Beat's me, man, it really does. But…it's the only explanation. The only one, dude. I saw what I saw – the doc took the damn thing out. Your whole abdomen was filled with this shit – and you almost _died_ because of it, Dean. There's no doubt, the doc didn't even need to think about it twice. Nothing out of the ordinary. There's no _buts_, Dean."

And that's simply it. There's no buts and no supernatural causes…well, except for a goddamn angel putting the damn appendix back inside Dean, that is. That's _it_.

An angel put Dean back together only to make him suffer pretty much the same way he'd suffered as a kid – makes him relieve the whole terrible ordeal – again. Only that, this time Sam is all grown up and really, really should have picked up on his brother's condition instead of successfully ignoring all the brightly lit neon signs right before his eyes.

Sam can see Dean work it over a little more, but in the end he can do nothing but accept Sam's logic – if because it's actually logical, or because he simply is in too much pain to care anymore, Sam doesn't know.

Doesn't want to know, either.

"Should've warned us," Dean mumbles.

"Who should have warned us?" Sam asks, confused.

"Cas. Should have warned us…of the side effects…of the whole resurrection…thing."

"Always said you should come with a damn handbook," Sam offers around a smirk.

The whole situation is breathtaking, to say the least, and Sam's sure he'll – they'll be chewing on it some more, once Dean is up to it. But at the moment they're both too exhausted to keep wondering and pondering.

And they've seen things so much weirder in their line of work, haven't they?

When Dean tries to shift on the bed but ends up groaning – a guttural sound emanating from deep inside him, Sam has to admit that he can't, as much as he wants to, keep this up any longer. _Dean_ can't keep this up any longer. They've already extended this much farther than they should have.

He presses the call-button for the nurse's desk, then leans forward, refastening his grip on Dean's arm and snatching up Dean's other hand before it can get anywhere close to the wound once more.

"Just let me handle this, alright? You relax, take it easy. They said it was a close call, but you'll get better now, you hear me? Another couple of days and you'll feel as good as new. And, hey – this'll make another cool scar, right? A lot cooler than the old one, anyways. This one's pretty damn big – won't fade for a while at least. Gives you plenty of time to take advantage of it – brag to the ladies…"

Dean smiles, tight-lipped but honest.

Right this moment he doesn't look as if he's going to be anywhere near any ladies anytime soon. But knowing his brother, Sam is pretty damn sure Dean will be bouncing back in no time.

Dean doesn't speak again, keeps his eyes open out of stubborn determination until a pretty young nurse bustles into the room, smiling at them a little too brightly, followed closely by the doctor on duty. They get busy immediately, checking vitals and writing in charts, talking to Dean but getting no answers in return. Sam is forced to let go of his brother's right hand but stubbornly keeps holding of Dean's left arm at least, refusing to even move the chair an inch away from the bed. The doctor and nurse just look at him funny, but Sam doesn't give a damn. He's got his brother back – he's determined to hold onto him now.

They check the wound – change the dressing. Sam thinks he's going to throw up again as Dean gasps in pain when they prod and poke at it for seemingly no reason at all but to test Dean's pain-tolerance.

When they are done torturing him and have covered up the wound with a fresh wad of gauze they adjust some of the dials of the oxygen cannula, advising Dean to leave it in for another day or two, just in case. They tell him he still runs a low fever so he needs rest, needs to eat and drink and sleep - and he needs to take it easy.

But when has Dean ever made things easy on himself?

Sam can see his brother shutting them out as they talk to him. The moment they've administered the new round of drugs through the port at the back of his left hand and leave the room, carefully closing the door behind them, Dean fumbles the cannula out of his nostrils, refusing to even listen to Sam's protests.

He doesn't look as if he's comfortable still, the drugs taking forever to take hold. His face remains grey and set as if in concentration, his jaw screwed shut with only that one, stubborn string of muscle jumping whenever he apparently bites back on any sound or sign of discomfort.

But now - as if he's spent too much time looking at his brother already, when waking up dazed and confused – he refuses to meet Sam's eyes. He stares straight ahead, at the ceiling or way beyond, his eyes slipping closed repeatedly when he's either fighting off a bout of pain or is very close to succumbing to exhaustion.

And Sam thinks he knows why Dean doesn't want to give in. He thinks that - for all the things he doesn't know about his brother anymore - this is one thing he still might be able to fix.

"Do you remember that one time – you were 16, I think, and Dad took us to hunt what he thought was a werewolf but turned out to be nothing but a rogue German Shepherd?" he starts, repositioning the chair so he can keep his hand on his brother's forearm and at the same time lean his elbow onto the mattress a little. Propping one of his feet on the lowest part of the pulled down railing of Dean's bed he leans back, relaxing his posture.

He's sitting almost opposite his brother now, facing Dean and he can see his brother's eyes shift to his face before averting his gaze again, his expression relaying his surprise at the meaningless story - hilarious or not. It's a fun little tale – nothing else. Something that happened a freaking lifetime ago.

And it's been ages that they talked about anything else but the apocalypse or Lucifer or Hell or…

Sam relaxes himself, tries to weigh his own muscles down so he can project some of his own calm toward his brother, pull him right along. He uses the story, a shared memory of somewhat happier times, to calm Dean, the only way he knows to make his brother let go a little – forget the terror of the past days or weeks or months and just let go for once.

Dean's still not looking at him, but he's listening, Sam knows, so he goes on.

"We spent days scouting out the forest, well – you and dad did, mostly. Followed tracks and you bragged to me about what a great tracker you were, jabbering on and on about broken twigs and bent leafs and all that. I had to stay behind for most of it but you took me along during that last night. Dad told me to stay in the car when you set out to kill the 'wolf', said you'd found its lair but it was too dangerous for me to come along,"

Finally Dean's eyes flick over to Sam again and while they're glassy from the fever still roaming his body and pain and various meds making their way through his bloodstream they still hold a spark that Sam can't remember to have seen in days, maybe even weeks.

"You cried…when we left you," he rasps and while his voice sounds hoarse and exhausted and pained Sam recognizes some of Dean's old spark there, too.

His tone is a mixture between taunting and loving affection – a mixture so unique to Dean, Sam will never be able to detect that exact same expression in anyone else. It's simply _Dean,_ the same _Dean _who has driven Sam to exasperation more times than he can count, but has made him feel loved and cared for in ways nobody else has ever made him feel.

It's Dean's way to show affection, to show that he does care, no matter how much he pretends that he really can't be bothered. He never uses that tone on someone he's indifferent to. He never uses it on people he hates. The moment he stops using it, Sam knows from experience, things are going down, hard and fast.

The moment Dean stops teasing and taunting, he doesn't care anymore.

"Didn't cry," Sam shoots back, aiming to sound indignant but he can't quite cover up the smile that creeps into his voice.

He's missed this. The teasing and bantering and…just them. Being brothers. He's missed it more than he realized and it hits him all the harder now – the times they've gone without.

"Blubbered like a baby," Dean retorts drily, the effort to keep his eyes open becoming more and more apparent in the way his brows rise high on his forehead as if they alone manage to keep his lids open anymore.

Sam snorts, shimmies on the chair so he can draw even closer to Dean, his forearm pressed along Dean's hip, fingers wrapped around his brothers wrist.

"Easy for you to make fun of, anyways. You got to come along – gun and all. I was forced to stay behind, in a car, nobody there to have my back."

At that, Dean's expression darkens, grows serious.

"Always had your back…. Wouldn't have left you…if I hadn't thought it safe."

It's a statement spoken so soberly, with such certainty and conviction there's nothing Sam can retort, really.

"I know. I know that." He says somberly.

And he does. He does now – and maybe he's always known, deep down. It just had been hard to remember it at that moment, stuck in the car all by himself, scared shitless that his brother and father wouldn't make it back this time.

"'Sides…was just a dog, after all. Knowing you…you probably would've made friends with it…taken it home and fed it…"

That, again, Sam can't deny.

He leans back, rolls his shoulders, fingers lax against his brother's arm.

For a while, they stay quiet. But while their little conversation has visibly worn Dean out, it also managed to accomplish exactly what Sam has been aiming for. It has relaxed him, helped to loosen up those overly-tight muscles along his arm and shoulders and even his jaw. When in immediate pain, Dean usually locks himself out, shuts himself down so he won't let anything slip, won't let too much of his discomfort show to whoever was there, lurking, trying to sneak a peak. It's something Sam has never been able to fully understand, because clearly Dean is always doing so much better once someone – preferably Sam – _always_ Sam – manages to coax him out of his reclusion and help him ease up a little.

Dean always shared his memories with Sam when he was sick or hurt – memories of their mom, those four short years he'd been able to spend with her. Four years Sam never had. And Sam, in turn learned to dig into other memories to help his brother in times of need.

After about five minutes of watching Dean fight the inevitable pull of sleep and drugs, Sam finally has enough.

"Jesus, Dean. Just go to sleep, alright? You gotta rest so we can spring you from this joint soon." Sam says, well aware that they won't be springing anything for quite a while to come. They will stay right here until Dean is ready, not a day earlier.

Dean doesn't react, just keeps staring at him with this unnerving look of intense exhaustion.

"Stop fighting it, Dean. You need your rest so you'll heal. I'll stay, OK? I will make sure none of those nurses get too close to you while you're weak and defenseless."

"Some girls like 'em…weak and 'fenseless," he slurs, lids almost closed now, only thin slits of green still visible between thick lashes.

Sam knows it's just a matter of time, that not even Dean can fight the meds forever. But it kills him to watch his brother suffer like this. It kills him to see Dean not willingly relaxing himself into Sam's care anymore.

"And you're just…jealous…they find me more attractive…even looking like this," Dean adds after a moment, his voice at least an octave lower than usual.

He's definitely almost gone already, and Sam recognizes the weak attempt at humor for what it is…he knows that cracking a joke, however ill-fitting it may be, is Dean's way of an apology – and a request to be forgiven, too.

"Yeah, you wish," he huffs quietly, then watches with barely concealed exasperation as his brother fights the already long-lost battle with consciousness with one last, valiant effort.

But enough is enough.

"It's Ok to let go, Dean," Sam presses, squeezing his brother's arm for emphasis.

And maybe he's the biggest hypocrite of them all, but for the moment Sam truly means it.

Despite all the times he thought his brother is too weak now, that Hell broke him in ways that can never be fixed again; despite all the times admonishing Dean for not fighting enough anymore, he now really wants him to let go and kick back for a while - give himself time to heal.

Sure - he wants his brother back – the way they were before. Before Hell and angels and demons teaching Sam how to stop Lillith, when the time comes.

And the time will come.

But not today.

Today, it's only about them – the end of the world be damned.

Today, Dean has to get better.

And then finally, after another minute or two of fighting the inevitable, Dean's eyes slide all the way shut and he's out.

It takes a while, even after he's drifted off, until the lines of pain etched into his features smooth out a little – giving Sam the sign he's been waiting for that his brother is once again resting more or less peacefully. Then Sam sits up and reaches over, adjusts the oxygen cannula underneath Dean's nostrils once more, shaking his head at his brother's stubbornness. But it's what keeps Dean going – what has kept him going through so many situations and hard times that would have forced others to their knees more than once. Everything comes with a price, Sam guesses.

For a moment he lets his hand hover over his brother's chest, studying Dean's face for any signs that he isn't really asleep, is trying to trick his little brother. But Dean's not the one who's doing the sneaking around, lately, and he most definitely is fast asleep right now. So, after a moment's hesitation, Sam lets his hand make contact, splaying his fingers wide over Dean's softly rising and falling chest. The amulet is right there, hidden beneath the thin layer of his hospital gown near Dean's heart.

He feels for his brother's heart-beat, steady and strong, lets the steady cadence calm him.

Dean sighs in his sleep, a deep, stuttering breath vibrating against Sam's palm before he falls back into his slower, shallower rhythm again.

And then, because Dean's out for the count anyways, and because there's no one there to call him on it, Sam lets his hand rest there for a little longer. He leans back in his chair and prepares himself for the wait.

Just like old times he feels himself calm down with his brother's presence, his body automatically matching his own heartbeat to the familiar rhythm of Dean's, his breathing stumbling for a moment before it, too, is in synch with his brother's.

This is how it's always been – the only way Sam can suddenly remember. Him and Dean. Even when their father was still in the picture, it has really only ever been him and Dean.

Maybe it's just an illusion, but Sam's suddenly confident that, together, they'll be able to _fix_ this.

They will find a way to put the past behind them, defeat Lilith and prevent Lucifer from rising to walk the earth.

All the things they've already been through – all those times they beat the freaking odds together… And they are still here.

They've chased and killed monsters most people can't even come close to imagining, have survived sickness and injury and unspeakable pain.

In the past 3 odd years they've both died and somehow made it back again.

Dean's been through Hell – literally – and he's just survived his second ruptured appendix in one way too short lifetime.

Whatever's still awaiting them can only pale in comparison with what they've already been through.

**The End**

* * *

_AN:_

_So, that's it. A long, long chapter, I know. _

_I honestly have no clue if it's any good, and if it makes any sense at all._

_I guess I just wanted to make sense of Sam's behavior during this season – but I firmly believe that he started out doing what he was doing for the right reasons…and just lost his focus along the way. We all know the show continued differently than this story suggests, but I am absolutely certain that Sam did question his own motives at times – or he would have, if Ruby hadn't been poisoning him – body and mind. Being stuck in the hospital with Dean would have made him see things a little more clearly, _maybe – even though it wouldn't have been for long.

_So…I owe you all the most heartfelt thank-you for sticking with me and this story for so long._

_I still do have another story on my hard drive, waiting to be released, and while I'm still not entirely sure about it, I think I will post it eventually. It would feel like a waste, letting it just rot there, after all. I will have some surgery done next week, and will then have some time on my hands to edit maybe the first chapter and see how that one goes…then we'll see about the rest. Since we've now got Season 7 confirmed, I do have some more time to post it _

_I think I don't need to say how much your review mean to me, your feedback is what keeps me going. I really hope you'll find some time to spare to hit the little review button and tell me what you think!_

_Thanks again for reading and I hope to hear from you!_

_Take care _


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